


Next Right: Welcome to Westbound Rest Area 818

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American Unilock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anonymous Sex, BAMF John Watson, Homophobia, Hurt John Watson, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John in the closet, John likes to play guitar, M/M, Roommates, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock out, They make sweet music together, bunk beds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2020-11-08 12:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 73,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20835512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Sherlock Holmes dreams of escape from his smothering family and space to breathe. Studying chemistry at the University of Michigan, he's almost far enough away to fill his lungs. Almost.While John Watson dreams of being a doctor, he also dreams of being with another man. John knows that with hard work and study, he can make the first a reality, but he's certain the second can never be. Until a secret encounter in the dark at Rest Area 818 changes everything.When Sherlock meets his new roommate, John Watson, he sees a man in the closet. Sherlock hides from no one. Except from his own family, a detective inspector who wants his evidence returned, and his secret encounter at Rest Area 818.Thank you to recently folded who lovingly beta’d chapters 1-5 and helped with an important plot point that deeply enriches this story. Also thank you to hotshoeagain for beta'ing the rest of the story.Setting late 1970s, Michigan, USA. POV third person alternates between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes





	1. Chapter 1

[ ](https://imgur.com/vSnnDOB)

**Prologue**

John sipped his beer as he watched his friends dive off the old pontoon raft into the clear blue water of Lime Lake. He pressed the cold can to his forehead and closed his eyes. While he welcomed the warmth of the sun baking his face, it was fucking hot and he was going to be seriously sore from this sunburn tomorrow. He didn't care. At least not today—one of his last lazy days of freedom. The last time they were all together was the Fourth of July celebration: late-night fireworks, sparklers, firecrackers, mosquito bites, and a few too many beers. They'd planned today as their one final blast together before each of them went his separate way to college.

Some were going out of state. Like Pete. Although Ball State wasn't that far, John doubted he'd ever see him much again. They'd never been that close. He planned to be a lawyer and that was so far from what John wanted that he knew their paths were unlikely to cross.

Mike he'd miss most, even though he wouldn't be that far away in East Lansing, at State. They'd had some great times together, getting high and cruising. John'd probably see Mike on holidays since their parents were close.

Vic was going to a small, private college with tuition so high only parents like Vic's could afford it. John's certainly couldn't. If it weren't for the healthy athletic and academic scholarships he'd received, he wouldn't be going to the U of M. Fuck knows that even with those he'll have to save and work one, maybe two, part-time jobs to make ends meet.

No way he'd be making fancy spring break trips like Vic to the Bahamas or Florida or even Europe. He'd have to stay home with Mom, Dad, and Harry, and hit the books. Studying medicine wasn't going to be easy or cheap.

As the raft gently rocked on the waves, John sucked down the last of his beer and crushed the can in his hands. A bitter wave of regret went with these last moments together, knowing that most of these friends might not be his friends if they knew the truth about him.

Vic belly-smacked into the water, drenching John. Time to stand up and dive in himself.

Nope, it wouldn't be the same ever again. He'd miss them.

\---------------

**Chapter 1**

He'd done it, scratched his dirty desire on the dingy bathroom wall. John wiped the blue ink that bled onto his fingers from his ball point pen into his faded grey t-shirt. As he hiccuped nervously, each new nervous hiccup bounced off the bathroom stall. The message was as much etched on the wall as written.

John clamped his mouth shut with his shaking hand, aching as he tried to swallow each hiccup down. So nervous. He dropped the pen. It rolled away underneath the door. It was just a cheap leaky pen. No need to pick it up. As he turned to go, he took one last look at his scrawl:

_7-15-74_  
_1-1:30 am_  
_behind back bushes_  
_looking for first fuck_

The stall door banged shut behind him as he left. A tall man looked at him from in front of a sink at the end.

John stepped to the other end and rested his ink-stained hand on the faucet. The sinks were clean, water hot, and soap just refilled. John let the water run, steam billowing up into his face. It was a humid July morning, but the heat didn't matter; he needed the steam to clear his head. He scrubbed the evidence from his hands as best he could with the scalding water, but his sin-stained hands were like the stall wall behind him—there for anyone to read. _Anyone_.

He'd done it.

He'd tried so many times before and chickened out, driving down I-94, passing this rest stop.

It was like any other rest stop for the weary on the west side of the I-94 corridor but for one big exception: its reputation. As a child he'd never known its reputation. To him, it was as welcoming as any other rest stop. His family drove by in their station wagon at least weekly. All those years and he'd never known its dark secret.

Then came high school. Freshman year. He'd overheard two boys in the locker room after football practice, heads together, whispering about free blowjobs and more at 818.

John knew all about those, he'd had a few. One from Sally down the street for two bucks. But it was the one from a boy at camp the previous summer that changed John forever. _Steven_.

John had always known that he was attracted to boys and men. At the movies, he didn't go to watch the women; it was the men he went to see. Sean Connery, Paul Newman, Robert Redford were just a few. He poured over their photos in well-used magazines and hid them under his mattress. Girls were fine, but after that summer with Steven, he knew the truth.

He hollowly recalled the end of that summer. They were packing and Steven hadn't said a word. John touched Steven's back. He jerked back, practically hitting John in the nose.

"Don't touch me," Steven hissed. "Don't ever touch me again."

John stepped away. His hands shook, his stomach cramped as Steven turned his back on him.

"But Steven, what about us? You said you'd always..."

"Stop!" Steven said, cutting him off. "I was horny, you were there. Convient. That's all you were to me. A hot mouth, a hand job. We never had sex, and if you ever tell anyone we did, I will fucking kill you."

Steven picked up his bags. John recalled how Steven shoulders sagged even as he called back to John, "I'm not gay."

It was a lie.

Afterward, John had told himself many lies. He told himself nothing had happened. He told himself he wasn't gay. He thought that maybe if he told himself enough times, it would become true. But it didn't. No matter how many times he repeated it, he still remembered how Steven made him feel.

John knew that for the rest of his life he would know that what had happened between them was more than just some hand job and a hot mouth. At least on his part, he felt love—or he thought he did. And for that one special summer, for the very first time, John had felt happy.

At home it never got easier. His dad hated "fags." He'd heard him talk about "those cock suckers" more than once. He wasn't sure how his mom or sister felt, but he wasn't about to ask.

After learning that little tidbit of information about the rest stop, John's head always swung the other way, to east side of the highway, as the family drove past that particular rest stop. He was afraid that what he was was written on his face. That his dad only needed to look at him to find out. Like the arrow pointing the way to Rest Area 818,everyone would see that he had "welcome, parking in rear" written on his forehead.

And there were his friends. They weren't assholes about it like his dad, but they snickered and made faces whenever John tried to casually bring up the subject. Instead of arguing with them, he'd play along, pretending he was just as shocked by those gay people as his friends.

Always pretending. But pretending didn't make it all go away. He still had Robert Redford under his mattress and he still dreamed about Steven. He wondered if there would ever be a place in the world where he could say "I love you" out loud to another man. He'd heard people were more liberal in California. Maybe he'd head out there someday.

He couldn't get the thought of that rest stop out of his head—that men met there for sex. After he got his drivers' license, he'd find himself driving into the rest stop whenever he went by. He told himself it was only to see what it was like. Behind plexiglas, a map of Michigan showed the stop's location circled with the words "You are HERE." Like he didn't know.

By senior year he'd gotten up the nerve to pull in later at night. He'd sit in his car. Sometimes he'd get out. He'd stand under the bright vapor lights and pretend to look at the map. He'd watch men get out of their vehicles and wander off behind the darkened building.

_Is this my future?_ He wondered. _To hid behind bushes in the dark?_

He never followed them. Instead, he'd imagine what seamy acts they were committing: who was on their knees? Who was taking it up the ass? What makes a man come to this place for sex? But John knew why. He just wasn't brave enough to be one of them. Yet.

More than once, a man tapped on his car window. Each time, John panicked. He peeled rubber, fled, car screaming out of the lot.

He wanted to know what it was like. Not just a blow job, but sex with a man. He wanted to know what it felt like. Did it hurt?

Last night he'd gone out for a drive, pulled into the rest stop and watched and waited, and did nothing. Today, in the light of day, he'd done it: turned into the rest area, parked, and gotten out. This morning he'd taken the pen he'd stashed in his glove compartment and he'd scratched his need on the stall. This morning, he'd changed everything.

\-----------------

Sherlock Holmes looked in the mirror above the sink and swiped off a circle in the steam with the back of his hand. Funny how he looked the same: same shirt, same thick, curly dark hair, same ringlets still hanging in his eyes with the same stray tufts sticking out on the sides. His eyes were the same ever-changing shades of blue and green with the same dark shadows under them. It was inside, under his skin, where the difference lay. He yawned in the mirror just like any other morning, except this morning he wasn't at home: he was at this American motor service area. This Rest Area 818. He wondered how he could look the same yet feel so changed inside. He wondered if people would look at him and know. Not that he really cared.

From one of the inside stalls, he heard a man cough and flush for the third time. A clattering. A pen rolled from under the door. Footsteps shuffled inside the stall. Sherlock shut off the water. _Someone else was here. Someone who might see him, might know._

Sherlock wondered if Shame were a living thing, a creature that hid in closets or beneath beds or behind dressers, a personification of guilt and lust. Shame swung the door shut behind him as a young man stepped to the other end of the row of sinks. Head down, the man washed his inky hand, dried it off on his jeans. Head still lowered, he raced out the bathroom door.

Sherlock followed a safe distance behind. His blond-streaked hair obscured his face, and the dragging hems of the man's jeans scuffed across the sidewalk as he rushed to his car.

Sherlock turned back to the public lavatories and walked into the stall to see what the man had left behind besides the pen. There was a note scratched in ink on the wall. This was the invitation he'd been waiting for. The man seemed young, innocuous, clean. Perfect for an anonymous encounter.

As he walked back out to his car, Sherlock whirled the pen in one hand as he dug deep into his front jeans pocket for his keys with the other.He unlocked his car door, but before he got inside he noticed that, not two cars over, the man who'd written the note was still there, sitting inside his car. Although Sherlock still couldn't make out his face, he could tell the man was cursing under his breath. From the way he was rubbing his head, he'd obviously hit it getting into his car. Sherlock watched silently as the man sat for a good ten minutes, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

Sherlock knew. It was Shame. He was sitting beside the man in the car.

\--------------------

_What if it ends up being some old fart without any teeth?_ Shame asked John._ Some smelly, homeless road-side bum? How will you know in the dark?_ John frowned. Shame had a point.

Then Paranoia stepped in. There was someone watching him. Yes, there he was. And he _was_ watching him. Creepy. He could be a mugger, a murderer.

John shifted his old Camaro into reverse and sped away.

Driving down the interstate, John thought. In the end, though, did it matter who? An anonymous first fuck? It was a creepy feeling. He supposed he could wait and watch from somewhere—see who came to answer his message. If that person looked as creepy as the man in the car, he'd pass on it.

_What if he really is some mass murder?_ Paranoia spoke to him again.

_It could be exciting,_ Shame answered. He smiled at that. Yes, there was a bit of Shame that egged him on. It's fun to be naughty.

_What will your family do when the police come to tell them they’ve found you dead with your dick cut off?_ His mom would be so upset. Harry? Sure, she'd cry and carry on, but in the end, would that really happen? He could wait and watch to see if it were a sting.

But Paranoia pointed out that vapor lights wouldn’t reveal the warped mind of a mass murderer who might look just like his next door neighbor. Some homicidal clean-cut, suit and tie type. John had seen so many of them wandering behind that same building late at night. No, it wasn’t dirty old men who lurked there. John had watched. No, it was generally a regular Joe—or some horny young man like him.

John had ignored those urges for so long. But they'd become impossible to push back.

_You don't have to go through with this,_ Shame said at last.

No, he didn't have to do this, but John knew he would. He wanted this, needed this—his mind and body yearned for this moment—it filled him, waking, and sleeping. _What was it like to be with a man? To have his cock inside me?_ Shame would just have to look the other way and Paranoia would have to find something else to worry about.

The battle was lost: Need out-weighed them both.

The knot in his groin said yes, he would. John shifted his beat-up Camero into third as he merged with the traffic.

\-----------------

Sherlock had known he would do this. From the moment he'd heard about it, he'd known. He was bored, and it sounded a bit dangerous.

He'd missed getting his heart racing. A motor service station where perverts got off seemed the answer. Just the sort of thing Sherlock missed. Excitement! Although in all likelihood, the only real peril was possible arrest or getting beaten senseless by some local, either for money or for fun. At least he'd get some sex. Not as good as investigating a murder, but it'd do in a pinch.

He'd learned about the secret rendezvous site by chance, sitting in Martha's Truck Stop at three in the morning. The truck stop was only three miles from the place his family had rented him until school would begin. It was tedious waiting for the summer classes to start. There wasn't much to do, but he did like watching the customers here. His landlady ran the place, and she gave him free refills of coke and coffee.

Americans were so different to Brits. Some were arses, most of them were stupid, and some were like Martha.

This Martha's Truck Stop and the people who worked here were fascinating. The red and white vertically-striped painted exterior was hideous. Fortunately, the door to the establishment pushed open—Sherlock would never touch a door handle like this, that was covered in gas, oil, and, most probably, grime from hands that hadn't been washed in weeks.

He did love the red and white gingham tablecloths with the yellow chickens embroidered on them and the barking dog napkin holders (the teeth were very realistic). Martha had taken to Sherlock from the very start. Sherlock liked her spirit and her no-nonsense attitude. It didn't matter how big or how dirty or how dumb the trucker was, with one wilting stare, they all cowered to Martha's will.

At first, he'd entertained himself deciphering what each customer's desperately ordinary life was like. Later, he'd scribbled his deductions on napkins. Finall,y he decided to just hand the napkins to the unsuspecting louts. Most of them were either pissed off or astounded.

One bastard did give him a black eye. He was a big, whiskery trucker in a stained red flannel shirt who didn't appreciate being called out for fucking two of the waitresses. He probably wouldn't have hit Sherlock if he hadn't given the waitresses the same note.

He'd still had the shadow of that black eye on the evening he overheard two men talking about Rest Area 818.

"I hear fags meet up in the dark and suck each other's dicks in them smelly stalls," one said.

"I seen some of em waltzin' out behind the back. Heard em gruntin' and moanin' and fuckin' away. Mos' disgusting thing I ever heard," said the other.

Sherlock almost interrupted and asked why he stuck around so long listening, but decided he didn't fancy another black eye.

Later that night, alone in his room, Sherlock spun it all over in his mind. This was a perfect solution for him. He'd never have to know the person he chose. He could get off without any complications, without messy human emotions getting in the way.

He had driven to the service area—or what Americans called a rest area—a few days later. He'd got the message to hook up from the stall wall and a leaking biro for his trouble.

During a dark, moonless night three days after that, Sherlock was there again. He didn't look to see who was there—he didn't have to. It was the man in the car next to his. Younger, fair-haired. Fit build. No questions. No strings. No complications.

Sherlock followed him behind the building and into the brush.

\--------------------

It was the third cigarette John had had that late night, but the nicotine that used to work its magic, stilling his jittering thoughts, was far from helping this time. He was nervous as hell. Blood vessels pounded so hard in his head they were echoing in his ears. If it continued like this for another minute, his skull was going to explode for damn sure. He knew he shouldn't smoke. But fuck, he needed it now.

Blowing out a trail of gray smoke, he shot yet another glance at the bathroom stall wall. The words were still there. No one had carved over them. The words screamed out at John, but would someone actually answer them? Once again, he felt the strong pull—his secret need—a pull stronger than any other he'd felt in his life.

Fuck. He kicked the bathroom door.

He'd almost come back and scratched them out himself. He'd choked on the cigarette smoke as he reread the words, murmuring to himself, “Who the hell was the fool to even joke about that around here?” _First fuck? _He thought._Him? An invitation to get my ass fucked_.

But he couldn’t look into the mirror after he left the stall, as he washed his hands. That same reaction drew his feet back to the same bathroom some time later, and John found himself locked inside the stall, staring at the bathroom wall, chain-smoking cigarettes until the small cubicle felt like a burning hole.

\---------------------

Sherlock pulled into the parking lot. Only two cars and a truck. It would be tonight. Tonight. If he did this, maybe the itch would go away. Maybe if he really did this, it would stop him from being…whatever he was now, and he could just forget about it and go on and start a new life in college. That's why he'd left London. To get away from his family. Himself. Go to some large American university. U of M. He was thousands of miles way from home and in the middle of nowhere at a mosquito-ridden hovel of a rest stop. Nobody would recognize him. Nobody would know him.

\--------------

A sheen of sweat formed on John's forehead. The next thing he knew, he’d pulled out a pocket knife and started to scratch out the words on the wall as he chewed on his cigarette until his jaw hurt. Once he finished, he threw the butt into the toilet and flushed. The cigarette butt disappeared down the hole and the writing from the wall was flecks of paint on the floor. It was as though nothing had ever been written there. But as he walked out of the bathroom on wobbly legs, he knew where he was heading. There seemed to be a voice calling to him from the darkness. _Behind back bushes, looking for first fuck._

The words were stamped inside his head now, and there would be only one way to rub it off.

\----------

The night was black, and the whole area smelled of gas and smoke. Sherlock tried to stifle the urge to light up a cigarette, not wanting to call attention to himself. He made his way behind the bushes. He was doing his best to walk silently in his trainers but they still shuffled the dry leaves and snapped twigs beneath his feet. He stopped every so often to make sure no one other than the man he'd chosen was following him. Always good to take precautions.

There was no one he could see, there in the dark. No sounds.

He'd almost decided to leave, but just before he turned around, he spotted a movement, there, deeper in the dark. Sherlock saw _him_. That same young man, his back to him, his whole body tensed up like he was doing something illegal.He was stepping backwards and shaking his head. So Sherlock wasn't the only one feeling a bit on edge. Something had brought the two of them there, and it wasn’t just that note on the wall.

The man changed his mind, just as Sherlock had, and moved deeper into the brush. Sherlock chewed his lip as he followed.

The lights from the building no longer reached him. No moon tonight. It was dark, utterly pitch-black. The blood in his ears thumped madly as he cautiously stepped deeper into the darkness. This is what he wanted. Excitement. A thick cluster of elderberry bushes and evergreens. Oak and maple trees. A lot of dark things to hid behind.

Nothing mattered now except what would happen next. The faint silhouette of another man came into shape before his eyes. Was it the devil actually coming to life? No! He wasn't the one. Sherlock ducked behind a tree.

He dug his fingers into the tree bark, getting his breath under control. In a blink, he was there. That man. The right height. He could see he had light hair. His features were obscured in the gloom of the night, yet there he was, touchable and real. He stepped closer. Sherlock's body yearned and trembled to be consumed.

When the stranger was within reach, Sherlock felt himself being yanked by the belt loops. Everything that followed was all about clumsy hands, harsh breaths and bittersweet arousal that was so thick he could smell it in the air.

At first, neither of them knew what to do next except grope each other. The man was clearly unsure, so Sherlock let him take charge. Sherlock grunted as the man pushed him down on all fours, scrambling and clawing at his own jeans to yank them down around his ankles.

There on a hot July night, Sherlock Holmes fell to his knees in a pile of leaves. As the man leaned into him, something brushed the back of his neck. Not fingers or hand. Something cold. Metal. A necklace. No...dog tags.

\---------------

“Fuck,” John cursed as he freed his own hard cock, trying not to strain to see the image before his eyes. He could close his eyes, but it didn’t matter. There was no mistaking that he was gripping a man’s ass, and he knew what he wanted to do with it.

John's mind had been set that he'd be the one on the receiving end. Not to be. At least not this time.

After John spat on his hand and coated his cock roughly with it, he shoved it where there was no going back. This was it. He had made a deal with the devil, sealed it with every hard thrust. John wanted to ask him what it felt like. It sure sounded like it hurt. But he heard the man beneath him on all fours utter moans that mixed with pain and pleasure. John plunged in harder, going deeper into the forbidden place.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” the man beneath him gritted out. His voice was uncanny. Deep and exotic. There was something else there too. An accent?

John felt a large hand grip tightly around his wrist. Startled, John yanked it back as if he had touched fire, but a second later, John reached around, grasping the man's long, hard cock in his hand, pumping it.

The stranger's low groans were mixed with the sound of crickets and the echoes of traffic whooshing down the highway. With a last grunt, John thrust and shot his release.

"Ah, yes," the man gasped out. The man shook as he came over his hand. John heard it splatter against the ground. He felt the need to quiet the man's shivering. He soothed him with his free hand, massaging the middle of his back to calm him.

John shut his eyes tightly, his face buried in the fabric of the man’s shirt as he rubbed his back. John thought of spring flowers. Maybe it was his shirt or cologne. Or maybe it was his shampoo. It reminded him of being six-years old and carefree, playing in his mom's garden. Days later, despite wanting to wipe out the memory of this night deep in the bushes, John wouldn't forget those flowers and the way he felt.

The same went with his grandfather's dog tags, the unintentional souvenir from that fateful night—John lost them. He didn't realize it until he was home, getting into bed. He went there the next day. He walked where they'd been. Stepped on the same leaves. He looked and looked but couldn't find them.

_The stranger must have them_, John thought. _Or they're buried in these leaves lost forever._ It seemed fitting that the memory of what happened between two strangers be forever locked at Rest Area 818.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the wonderful Recently folded for working so hard and pushing me to revise direct and indirect characterizations to make this story stronger.

Winter classes would begin on Monday. Two days left of freedom. John had crammed his books into the tiny bookcase his dorm provided—although he figured calling it a bookcase would be pushing it.

He barely had room to shelve his textbooks from this semester; he wondered where the hell he’d put the new ones for next term. He hated to sell them back. He might need them again. He could use the cash, though. The damned things cost more than he'd expected. His parents weren't rich, so he'd always be on some sort of budget. He'd bought used ones for less at the campus bookstore, but guessed that most of them had been picked over by the time he got there. He’d have to make sure that he went earlier, winter semester. 

It was late, but he couldn’t sleep. He frowned.

John lay back down on his bed. It was so short that even his legs reached to the very end. The bed groaned like an old man. He cringed when he heard the springs underneath rub against his guitar case. He’d shoved it under his bed a few days earlier—it was the only place that he could think of to store something as large as his guitar. He’d paid a lot for that case, but better to scuff the case than the lovingly-used Gibson.

At least he was in the lower bunk. He’d tossed a coin with his roommate that first day and gotten the lower bed, so that was cool—gave him a spot to secure his electric Fender too. It just fit, wedged between the bed and his dresser.

Fortunately, his roommate didn’t seem to have much, other than clothes and books. Lots of books. The guy didn’t seem to mind much taking the upper bunk, though. He'd said he preferred it after the toss. If these first few days were any indication, his roommate wouldn’t be sleeping in it much anyway. John wasn't even sure that his roommate ever slept.

The first day, John had only briefly met Sherlock Holmes, his new roomy. He seemed a nice enough guy. So much for first impressions.

Two mammoth hands, reaching out, encasing his. He was gorgeous. Tall, lean. Strong features, sharp cheekbones. He was handsome in an odd sort of way. And he was British.

_British_.

And his voice. The man's rich baritone dripped sex. Not that John noticed that sort of thing. Despite how hot this Sherlock looked and sounded, he was a fucking dick. He seemed to be very put out that he was forced to have a roommate. Sure, he took the top bunk, but he really didn't want anyone in his space. At all. It seemed he'd had the room all to himself for the summer semester, and now he wanted to keep it to himself.

It amazed John how a man could be so graceful and yet be such an asshole.

He'd called John an idiot.

"But everyone is an idiot," he'd said. "You're less of one than most other people."

"You don't _say_ things like that to people," John had sputtered.

"Why not? It's the truth."

"Sometimes you need to keep the truth to yourself," he'd suggested. John decided that it was possible that his roommate was socially awkward and he was just being giant ass-wipe. Instead of acting grateful for the advice, Sherlock reacted like John had just insulted his mother and huffed off.

Nope. Ass-wipe.

Sherlock seemed put out at the very notion of giving John the scoop about anything having to do with the campus, let alone any low-down on his personal history.

"Who is this Mycroft dude who keeps calling and leaving messages?"

And that was the other thing. He had an answering machine.

An enormous answering machine that took up a third of the desk that they had to share. And for what reason? So this Mycroft, who sounded like more of a fuck-wad than Sherlock, could leave long messages in that highfalutin' accent: "Sherlock, do call Mummy. She is beside herself with worry. Also, Lestrade told me to remind you to post back that evidence you took from the crime scene."

Crime scene? Evidence? John wondered who the hell he had for a roommate.

Oh, and he liked to be called _Sherlock_. With a name like that, you'd think you'd want some sort of nickname. But this guy with a stick up his ass? John figured that it fit him. 

It was only later that he did find out something about his roommate he could appreciate. Those same long, large tapered fingers rolled a mean, fat old dooby. Sherlock fired the sucker up with his Bic, then passed it to John. Pretty primo pot, resin all sticky on John’s fingers and lips. Sherlock got a real good buzz too. His eyes turned red and, along with the green in them, reminded John of Christmas trees.

So what if they didn't exchange small town stories about Grass Lake, or big city stories about London? Instead they drank warm Cokes and ate Pringles out of the can. Sherlock called them "crisps." Weird.

Sherlock claimed he smoked weed to help calm himself down. John didn’t doubt it, the way he hit on that joint like it was his last supper. Not that Sherlock really ate. At all. Other than "crisps."

He had to get to class.

\-----------------

Why did he even need a roommate? Sherlock supposed if he had to have one, it could have been far worse. He thumped around the room. John was in Biology. What a waste of a science class.

John was away. John was...

It had all started out with a few doubts. Doubts, doubts, doubts. He never had had doubts before John Watson. Not many, anyway. At least not as many as he had now.

His name was John Watson. _The universe is rarely so lazy_.

Yesterday, Sherlock had smoked marijuana with him. It was an experiment in human behavior, and John Watson behaved predictably. At first. He became more paranoid than a hippo on thin ice. _Were hippos ever on thin ice? Not sure._ He may have erased that information.

Sherlock had leaned over and put his hand on John’s knee. He didn't normally touch people, but this was the perfect opportunity to see if his roommate was receptive or homophobic.

John jerked back a bit, but politely let the hand lay.

_Good_, Sherlock thought.

He decided to test his theory further. He inched closer to John on the bed. John became even more antsy, yet he didn't move away. _Interesting_. When Sherlock wiped the resin off John’s bottom lip with his thumb, John began to stutter.

"We're doing an experiment in biology and comparing the decomposition of five different types of organic matter," John blurted out.

John Watson did seem more intelligent than the average American college student. He had an excellent understanding of decomposition, which he began to rattle off to Sherlock non-stop for over twenty minutes.

When Sherlock fired up a second joint, paranoia struck John to the core. It was most evident in his flicking eyes and twitching jaw. Watching Watson squirm caused a most unusual sensation inside Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock leaned back on the bed and looked up at John, who licked his lips as he looked directly at Sherlock's mouth

Sherlock was almost positive he knew who John Watson was.

Almost. He needed one bit of further proof. He could be nosy, or he could just ask.

"What's your middle name?"

John blinked at him and blushed. "I don't like it, and I don't share that information with just anyone."

Sherlock tapped John's mattress impatiently. "I'm not anyone. I'm your roommate."

"I just met you this week!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Do you have anything in here to eat?"

He needed time to get into his mind palace and go directly to the room where he'd stored that night at the rest area.

\--------------------

That night John had wondered if he had a sign on his back that said faggot, but Sherlock just grabbed another stack of the Pringles that John had shared with him and shoved them in his mouth saying, “These are very tasty.”

John lamely nodded back, pretending to be normal. He reassessed Sherlock. He was handsome, but aloof for the most part. John wasn't sure if he was a homosexual. Just because he smelled nice and used exotic colognes and shampoos didn't actually mean he was. Maybe he just got chummy when stoned and liked touching people's knees.

John also had another problem with Sherlock: his choice of cologne. John felt that he must be allergic to something he wore. John had always had a hypersensitivity when he used certain shampoos and aftershaves, but this was the first time it had bothered him when someone else used them near him.

The itching began the day he moved in. Three days later he gave up and went to the campus clinic.

Sherlock had taken his hand off John's knee and picked up the prescription bottle that John had left on the bed.

John was surprised to see that Sherlock looked horribly upset. "You should have told me immediately. I could have narrowed down what it is much sooner."

John stared at him. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Allergic reaction," Sherlock said. "Obvious. You have been scratching and sneezing. It is something in this new environment or you would already be dealing with it. The most common socially-encountered allergens are perfumes and cologne. You don't wear any. I do."

Two days later: no problem at all. Sherlock was still walking around smelling like a field of wild flowers, but John had stopped itching.

\--------------------

It was easy to determine the allergen. Which made Sherlock's case as to John's identity even more certain. He was using the same cologne as he had that night. John obviously hadn't shown the symptoms then. Sherlock had, however, changed his shampoo since their first encounter.

He threw away the shampoo.

He waited for John to leave before going through his dresser, but he couldn't determine his middle name from anything it contained. He thought of asking Mycroft. Most likely his brother already had a file on his roommate, but Sherlock didn't want to ask Mycroft for any favours. Favours always needed to be repaid.

He sat down on John's bed and leaned back on the headboard. Closing his eyes, he pressed his steepled fingers under his chin and entered his mind palace.

It was never really in question that the man at the rest area and John Watson were one and the same. His complete inability to convince himself of the opposite made that the only logical conclusion.

But why and how then? Fate was not even a remote possibility to Sherlock.

At first he had tried to deny that they were the same. The man at the rest area's hair was much longer and lighter than John Watson's. Sherlock's nimble mind palace simply had barber sheers clip those the vibrant blond strands to confirm it was the same head of under that hair.

Clothes didn't confirm a thing, but what was beneath them did. The most damning single piece of evidence was Watson's legs. Although Sherlock had not seen the same cut of jeans or t-shirt that the man at the sink had worn that day, the clothing had afforded Sherlock a good look the shape of the man's legs and his tanned arms.

Sherlock observed those same legs the first evening that John Watson had arrived to be his roommate. A towel-wrapped and freshly washed Watson was an invigorating sight for the eyes. Sherlock had put that little vision into a special room in his mind palace: calves well-defined, fine sandy hairs, thighs that Sherlock would love to have wrapped around his head (although slapping against his own thighs had been very pleasurable). The shape of his legs alone constituted conclusive proof, but that thin scar on his arm? Beyond doubt.

The label on the prescription bottle for the mysterious itching was proof positive.

It all added up and the improbable became the most probable solution. Fate or no, his clandestine encounter was his roommate.

Which left the question: what to do now?

He knew he wanted John Watson again. But at what cost? Could he remain detached if they were to fuck again?

Despite the discomfort—no the pain—Sherlock had reserved a niche in his mind palace for that evening together (and if he wanted to be truthful with himself, and he always did, he had a very _large_ niche). Every echo of John spitting into his hand, every pulse in his arse as John's cock split him pushing inside, Sherlock had preserved.

He had a special place in his mind palace. Not a measure one should take if one wanted to remain detached.

He could tear it all down and dispose of the memories. There was the place he kept the days he had hobbled around with a sore arse after that epic night. He could toss out not being able to sit down without cringing for days. He could get by without those particular recollections.

But not that night. That wouldn't be easy to disassemble. He _wanted_ to remember how his hips twitched for more, how John's hand soothed his back, how John's breath on his neck heated Sherlock's very soul. He had never experienced an orgasm that made him tingle or his toes curl that way. Never. He didn't want to tear that part ofit down. He wanted to experience it again.

But he could remove his memories of how he'd worried. Oh, how he worried. About possible infection. About all his second thoughts. About Mycroft's voice in his head asking Sherlock how did he know it was really the man's first time?Did you wear protection? Did you even think about diseases? Gonorrhea? Syphilis? But of course Sherlock knew he was the man's first. Every cell in Sherlock's body knew it was. And after he came to know John Watson, all doubt was removed. He was his first. It was completely obvious.

And Sherlock was the man John spent it with. How could he tear down a room with that inside?

What to do!

How could he have the most significant sex in his life again and remain detached? Could he detach himself from a paradox? John Watson appeared to be a simple American from a working class family who counted himself fortunate to get scholarships for his hard work, study, and athletic abilities. Yet when he spoke, Sherlock found all of those preconceptions dust under his feet.

He could never predict John's words or actions as he could other people's. Why just yesterday morning, Sherlock was sleeping when John dangled a white bag with Bagel Fragel written on the front over his head. As he climbed down from the top bunk, Sherlock was skeptical, but then John reached inside the bag and handed him the best bagel Sherlock had ever tasted. Who knew that Ann Arbor could offer such wonders as the Fragel, a deep-fried raisin packed dough covered in cinnamon and sugar that melted in his mouth? And the coffee? _Bliss_. And John had the perfect sugar ratio. It was like some sort of supernatural fluid flowed through Watson's veins instead of blood.

While Sherlock knew that John Watson was attractive, there were far more handsome men in his dorm. Yet when John Watson stripped off his shirt to get into the shower, Sherlock knees went weak and he would swear to anyone near him that John rivaled Michalageo's David.

It was really a matter of what Sherlock _wouldn't_ do to be able to be with him again. Instead of encountering a dark formless figure that Sherlock could only feel. What wouldn't he give to see those sweaty thighs flex and shoulders strain?

Sherlock decided he could risk it. He loved risks. And what was a bigger risk than sentiment? He would have John Watson again (and again and again). Only one obstacle needed to surmounted: John Watson was not (yet!) comfortable with his sexuality. While Sherlock had never been truly comfortable within his own skin, he'd never denied that he was gay. He never went out of his way to say he was gay, but he'd never denied it when asked.And as for sex, until now it only had been a physical need or a means to an end.

\--------------------

John enjoyed his first classes. Most were interesting, but having a hundred or more students in one class was overwhelming. Every day he sat some where different. He'd made no real connection to anyone except in Biology in the Kraus building with his lab partners.

It was not knowing a soul that bugged him most. John always had had a lot of friends. Here, he'd had to start over. Sherlock didn't seem like someone who had many. As John had wandered the university yesterday, he’d observed the self-assured way upperclassman moved about. John watched as groups met for the first time after the long summer break—guys back-slapping, girls jumping into waiting arms. He wondered if next year that’s what his life would be like.

John found making friends easy enough, but these first days were busy—finding where his classes were, buying books, and getting settled took all his time. He didn’t have much time for making friends. He supposed he was making excuses for not getting very close to other people. He knew just from the last couple days that living within these paper-thin walls of *Baker Hall, he’d get to know people a little too intimately.

Seems Sherlock had better luck. He'd already met some chick named Molly who was infatuated with him. She'd invited herself to their room and mooned over him, making eyes and dropping hints about the wonders of free love that she'd read all about in _Time_ magazine.

"I started taking The Pill," she said, "just so I could be prepared."

It was like Sherlock Holmes was from another planet. It went completely over his head that this Molly was making a huge pass at him.

After she'd left, John asked Sherlock about her.

"You didn't seem interested," John said.

"Girls. Not my area."

Well, that was confirmed then. His roommate must be gay.

Meanwhile, John was lonely, but never alone. He had his guitar. All he needed to do was reach under his bed and take it out of its case. He’d saved up for months to pay for this guitar, bought used from Victor. He doubted his friend had ever tuned it, let alone played it. It was one of the many gifts that his friend had gotten from his parents that had simply collected dust in his closet. He knew he hadn't paid near what the Gibson was worth, but Victor hadn't cared.To John, if a man could love an instrument, this was love. Like all fine guitars, it always sounded best when a touch off pitch, and what was more lovable than that?

He knew it was past midnight, but he could practice a bit, quietly.

He didn’t think people would mind on a Saturday night. No one was around. Not even Sherlock. John knew he should be out and mingling, but he didn’t feel much like socializing. It's not like he could afford to go anywhere. Freshman weren't allowed to have cars, and public transportation was his only option. No place he could go that he could afford.

John had come to the conclusion that even though dorm rooms sucked, being in a freshman dorm sucked more.

He could live with the dorm room as cramped and impersonal as it was. This freshman dorm was filled with guys like him, all shell-shocked and nervous, feeling lost and lonesome on the big campus. All John had to do was step out into the hallway and he was accosted with invitations to come smoke one or have a drink. 

John wasn’t sure how prepared he was for living this closely-packed. Months ago, John’s parents had insisted that he not be in a coed dormitory. John wanted to be in a coed: he had no problem with girls around. He put up a fight—just on principle—but in the end, they were footing the bill so here he was in a dorm packed with hundreds of male bodies, nuts to butts. The bathroom situation was the worst; his whole floor shared this single communal bathroom. John’s first impression was walking into a wall of steam filled with five sweaty, hot guys in various stages of undress. John took a piss, then ducked out as quickly as he could. How was he going to make it through this? It was worse than high school gym class.

But John soon figured out that the showers emptied late at night. Last night he’d grabbed his wash cloth and towel. Herbal Essence shampoo. His soap. Not Palmolive or Dove; he liked manly soap, Irish Spring. Nothing like that fancy-schmancy stuff Sherlock had (of course John would be allergic to the expensive stuff!). He took his shower thinking on all the wet, hot bodies that were in there earlier, beat off thinking about them...and that one night not long ago.

After his experience with Sherlock with his big joint and his hand on his knee, he had decided to hide out in his room.

He was playing "Blowin' in the Wind"and singing when Sherlock came in the door.

"Sounds nice," he said. "Keep playing."

Sherlock stripped down to his skivvies and climbed into the top bunk.

"I play an instrument also." Sherlock's voice echoed from above like he was some sort of celestial being. "My brother told me not to bring it. He said I would chase away all of my roommates. I of course brought it anyway. I have refrained from playing since coming here."

"What do you play?" John asked. He hadn't recalled seeing any instrument about.

"The violin."

A fiddle? John wasn't sure what to say to that. He wasn't much into country music. But no. Sherlock wouldn't be into country. More like classical music. That wasn't that much better in John's mind.

"Where is it?" John asked.

Sherlock head popped over the edge of the bed. In one fluid motion, he flipped off the top bunk and was sitting next to John. Right in John's space. Again.

That’s why he escaped into his music, humming and strumming a few Neil Young songs on his six-string. Easy to sing and not think. At least until his roommate decided to come closer. Sherlock was even humming along next to him. In his underwear.

\-----------

On the top bunk, Sherlock had closed his eyes. John was very talented. He had a lovely voice. Add one more to the list of John Watson paradoxes. Who knew this simple man could sing and play guitar like Bob Dylan? How had it come to this? Sherlock hadn't wanted a roommate at all, but this could prove much, much worse. Or better. Depending...

John was not only a constant reminder of his encounter at the rest area, but also of one of the most perplexing mysteries he'd ever encountered.

It wasn't fate. He wouldn't, no, couldn't believe it that. Improbable things happen all the time. Improbability was an illusion based on preconceptions. John Watson was a common enough name. Then he had picked up the prescription bottle and read his full name on the label: John Hamish Watson II. The same. The same man. The same long thin scar on his arm. The same. The universe has very little to do with statistical chance. Given an infinite universe, every event with non-zero probability, however small, shall eventually happen.

When he'd seen that Hamish was not common at all. It was the same name as on the dog tags he'd found on the ground at the rest stop, that event had happened. It was him.

John's grandfather's WWI tags were in a box in the bottom of his dresser.

Bottom. Yes. For days after that encounter, every move he'd made, every step he'd taken, he'd felt that cock. The experience had been enlightening. He'd prepared for that moment, but the pain had still been incredible. Yes, John was a talented man. Maybe not experienced in the ways of commercial lubricants, but talented.

Nothing in Sherlock's life had felt like that moment—before or since. He'd reached that conclusion while in his mind palace. That ache, that need pressed Sherlock to act. He still felt that pressure, still echoed it every night as he tried to go to sleep. And the man who had made him feel this way was mere inches away.

"John, I think you should know that I am gay."

"You are," John said. Not a question then. He knew or sought to determine that after what Sherlock had said regarding Molly.

"Do you have a girl friend?" Sherlock asked, voice echoing off the ceiling just above him.

Simple enough.

"No. Not in a while. I'm going through a dry spell, I guess." John bit his bottom lip and continued to play his guitar.

Not decisive. Much like the man in the bushes: still hiding.

Sherlock recalled how he'd felt just before they met that night: the taste in his mouth, how the wet grass smelled under him, the sound of hollow footfalls. He couldn’t get it out of his head. He'd rewound, then replayed so many times in his mind palace since. The way John had used his own spit to make his way. The pain, while perhaps unnecessary, had made it all so much more real. On hands and knees, grunting, moaning, pounding the ground, the torment of pain turning into the torment of pleasure. He wanted nothing so much as he wanted it again. All of it.

"So it's been a while since you've been with someone," Sherlock said.

What irony! Sherlock went to have an anonymous fuck to keep from having complications. Now, the biggest complication of his entire life was playing "Heart of Gold" sitting on the bottom bunk.

John had stopped playing. He was thinking. Thinking about how to answer the question.

It was the choice of an instant to jump down next to John on his bunk. Sherlock wasn't sure what he was doing. For someone who prided himself on thinking through his every move, he was surprised at himself for following his heart.

He smiled at John, and John flashed a shy smile back.

"This summer. I had, well, sex." Although the tone in John's voice didn't reveal much to Sherlock, his eyes did. He looked past Sherlock, eyes foggy. He was remembering, remembering that night.

_No,_ Sherlock thought. _What am I doing?_

Sherlock knew he should demand a new roommate. Have Mycroft write a check and he could do it. There was risk, but then, there was also danger.

"I think I'll take a shower," Sherlock said. He noticed John blinking up at him as he grabbed a towel and a clean pair of sweatpants out the dresser drawer and raced out of the room.

A cold shower—that's what he needed. And time to think. Away from his number one distraction.

In the hallway he heard voices and music behind the doors. The bathroom was still. Sherlock turned on the shower and stared in the mirror.

He could still see that one morning during his second week of school when his teacher told his mum that there was a problem: Sherlock refused to color inside the lines.

Through the mist of the mirror, he saw the boy becoming a man who would never color inside the lines.

Why did there have to be complications? He could sleep with his roommate. After all, Watson was looking for anonymous sex. He'd obviously enjoyed it from what Sherlock detected in the far-off look in John's eyes.

Why, it didn't have to mean anything. Just sex. Not all that risky after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Just to be clear, there’s no Baker Hall at U of M, but on this fictional campus, we need one since they’re in room 221.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greetings dear readers. Thank you for those who left kind and encouraging comments on the first two chapters. 
> 
> For those used to my usual regular posts for my works, I apologize. This story is being written chapter by chapter as I publish and is a journey myself and for John and Sherlock. I do have an idea where I’m going with the plot (no worries, the ending will be happy), but how it will all transpire, I don’t. Yet. My writing process is a metaphor of my life. I used to write using “by the seat of my pants” method almost exclusively as a young writer. As I’ve gotten older, I tend to plan, plot out and write the whole story before publishing and just clean up each chapter with my beta as I go. 
> 
> That said, please forgive the longer gaps between chapters, but have patience. I am looking for this to be about 10 to 12 chapters. Also know that I am on the same quest as you are as you read. The setting is familiar to me, so I don’t have to do much research at all, which speeds up the process. 
> 
> And a big hug and thanks to recently_folded, my superb beta, who never stops or gives up reminding me to show not tell and add character voice through their narration.

A twinge of disappointment crept through Sherlock when he opened the door to his dorm room and saw John asleep. As Sherlock quietly clicked the door shut and crept up to the bed, John's lashes fluttered.

His roommate's hands clutched an old patchwork quilt that John had tucked under his chin. A piece of home sewn lovingly by some member of John's family, most likely his grandmother, Sherlock deduced.

Although he understood why John kept it: sentimental reasons. Sherlock had his own. Christmas morning, an eight-year-old Sherlock had unwrapped a shiny spy glass from his Uncle Rudy. This treasure became his constant companion. While the spy glass had its practical uses, that was not why Sherlock cherished it. It was that it was from his Uncle Rudy, who'd gifted the spy glass to his nephew with love. He even wrote it on the card (which Sherlock also kept): To my curious young scientist Sherlock from your dear Uncle Rudy.

Sherlock deduced that John's quilt must mean something similar. The frayed edges were carefully mended, and the original fabric patches in subtle floral patterns of browns and blues were patched with clashing purple and orange fabric scraps. Tattered and faded from years of a little boy dreaming beneath, it had been kept alive with caring hands.

It came with John to college, just as the spy glass had come with Sherlock.

On the quilt were John's old socks. Too tired to bother putting them in his dirty clothes hamper, he'd wadded them up and thrown them at the end of the bed. Grass-stained on the soles and with holes in each heel. Next to them John had also left his guitar pick and capo.

John's legs shifted as he rolled around under the quilt. Before the items at the end could get twisted into the quilt or tossed aside, Sherlock silently leaned over the bed and snatched them up.

Sherlock tossed the socks on the chair before reaching under the bed for the guitar case to put away the capo and pick. He found the handle and pulled, but with John on the bed, it was wedged in too tightly to remove without either waking him or scratching the case.

Instead, Sherlock quickly ran down the options and then chose John's electric guitar case tucked between the bed and dresser. He stretched to get it and silently eased it out and carried it across the room. As he did he kept one wary on John, who continued to snore gently. Sherlock moved John's trainers from the middle of the floor and set the case in their place.

He stealthily unlatched the cover, giving a very quiet sigh of relief that none of them popped or squeaked as he did. 

Sherlock knew little about guitars, but he knew quality. John must have saved and worked hard for this one. The body was powder blue and the chrome on it polished. Sherlock eased the neck of the guitar up to put the capo and pick away in the small compartment that hid beneath.

Sherlock couldn't help but grin when he saw what else it contained.

_Condoms. And lube._ His roommate had come to college prepared. Sherlock slipped the capo and pick inside the compartment, replaced the guitar, and shut the case. He carefully returned it alongside the dresser. Not exactly in the same spot.

John needed to notice that something was amiss.

When would he realize Sherlock found his condoms and lube? John was most likely tired and hadn't even realized he'd left his capo and pick on the bed, but he might notice that his electric guitar case had been moved and figure it out then. Or it could happen later, when John went to play his regular guitar and wouldn't be able to find them. Maybe he'd ask Sherlock if he'd seen them.

Sherlock climbed up the frame at the end of the bunk bed and wiggled under his blanket. Stretching out, he closed his eyes and entered his mind palace.

What will John think when he realizes Sherlock knows?

He'd open the case to see the capo and pick there. _Realization_. John's heart might beat faster with the knowledge that Sherlock knew. _Fear_. He'd shake his head. Maybe Sherlock hadn't noticed. _Denial_. But John knows Sherlock's observant. John would sigh._ Resignation_. Eventually, John would wonder and lick his lips. _Interest._

All possible, all probable. Yet Sherlock knew that within these possibilities, there'd be some combination he hadn't accounted for, something that Sherlock couldn't predict. And that excited him.

Just as Sherlock imagined what was in John Watson's head, he hoped that Watson did the same. That John might be interested in something more with Sherlock and wonder if Sherlock were interested in him. That John might lay on the bottom bunk, staring up and wondering what Sherlock Holmes might be like to kiss.

\----------------------

Getting ready for his early morning Psychology class, John kicked himself for staying up so late the night before. The dreams he'd had were worse. God, he was having sex in them with his roommate. How could he look him in the eye again after that?

He tore along the hallway of the dorm and down the stairs. At least he was only on the second floor. He found himself speeding up to a sprint across campus to East Hall. The irony wasn't lost on John that the lecture today was on classical conditioning and how responses to environmental stimuli shape actions. He knew he'd be shaping his actions much differently in the future. No more playing guitar and eating Pringles and looking into his roommate's magically changing eyes until two in the morning!

Maybe watching Sherlock lick his lips and fingers as he ate the Pringles was what had prompted the dream. Classical conditioning. He hoped a conditioned response didn't pop up when he next looked at that cupid-bow mouth, or, worse, a can of Pringles.

Sherlock and his lips were no longer his chief concern, though. Now it was how to sneak into the hall without anyone noticing.

He pushed open the double doors to the large lecture hall, trying his best to be invisible. The doors clicked and whooshed. He closed his eyes and hoped no one had noticed. He counted to three before he opened them to find a few heads turned, along with someone's arms and hands waving at him. Thank God the arms belonged to Molly, who was motioning him over to sit down. 

He bolted down the aisle and slipped into the seat next to her. He gasped out his relief. Thankfully John was now hidden in an enormous lecture hall—just one among over two hundred faceless students. At least John hoped he was faceless.

"You're late," she whispered. "Professor Doyle hates it when students waltz in after the lecture has started."

John usually didn't take time to notice what girls wore, but Molly was hard to miss. She had on a red and purple floral print dress bright enough to be seen even from the front of the auditorium.

John wiped off his forehead with the back of his hand before he began digging for his notebook and pen out of his backpack. The professor hadn't missed a beat, and John crossed his fingers that his late entry had gone unnoticed. He reached into his bag only to have his pen slip from his fingers. His heart sank as he watched it roll under the chair in front of Molly.

His only pen. He struggled not to panic. Panic over a fucking pen! Molly must have sensed his worry and came to his rescue. She tried to retrieve it with the side of her foot, but instead of rolling into John's waiting palm, it rolled completely out of reach under the chair. No use. He'd have to get the notes from Molly later.

John began to sit up in his seat when he heard the professor say what no first year student wants to hear from their professor: his name.

"_John Watson_ proposed that the process of classical conditioning based on Pavlov's observations explained all aspects of human psychology."

With a rush of relief, he thought, _Oh, that John Watson_. While he was trying to resume breathing, Molly handed him one of her pens. John leaned back and opened his notebook.

"And it seems that we have our own _John Watson _in this very class," the professor continued, "a late-arriving John Watson who seemingly feels free to interrupt my lecture."

Even from the back of the lecture hall, John could see that Professor Doyle was glaring directly at him. His heart pounded in his ears as heads swung around and stared at him as though he were a grisly fatality in a traffic accident, smeared all over the roadside.

He wanted to crawl under the chair to hide along with his pen. "I'm sorry, Professor Doyle," he called down to the lectern.

Every student around him, including Molly, cringed for John.

"Don't be sorry, be on time," replied the professor.

"I will."

"Yes, you will or I might have to replicate the Little Albert Experiment with you as the subject."

John laughed lamely at the joke...that he was pretty certain wasn't actually a joke.

While in the back of John's mind he wondered how the professor could possibly know about his aversion to rats, right now he was more concerned about placating the man who held his future grade at his whim.

"I'll be here on time, Professor Doyle," he promised.

John kept his head low the remainder of the lecture. A few students caught his eye to give him emphatic smiles and nods. With the professor's last word, he thrust his borrowed pen back at Molly and scrambled to get out of the lecture hall and away from all of those eyes.

"John Watson! Come up here, please. I need to I speak with you."

He hadn't been quick enough.

He waded through the students all pouring out the other direction, while he headed toward inevitable disaster at the hands of...Professor Arthur Conan Doyle.

As John's feet carried him ever closer to his doom, he was reminded that that this particular class was referred to as the science weeder course. Had he just volunteered to be one of the first to be weeded? He was looking at the man who had the power to toss aside all his hard-won plans.

As he got to the podium, John was staring straight into Doyle's eyes.

Most of the students had cleared the hall by now. The only few remaining were suck-ups or brown-nosers hoping to charm to the prof.

"Late night?" Professor Doyle asked.

"Yes, but it's not a usual occurrence. Unusual actually."

"College is about learning who and what you are. I as well as anyone understand the temptations which come from freedom. There is fun to be had, but one must temper what one calls a 'good time' with study. I trust you understand the difference."

"I do."

"You were highly recommended to me through the work study program. I trust this recommendation was not amiss. I hope today isn't any indication of how you plan to conduct yourself."

"I can promise you that today won't happen again."

"Good. Take this address and phone number. They're for my research assistant." The professor handed John the note.

"Thank you!"

Work study!? With Professor Doyle? He could hardly contain himself. This would be a huge help in making ends meet. Before John could do the math in his head, he bit his tongue. Not certain how he hadn't managed to blow it with his grand entrance, he gratefully took the note.

"Thank you, sir" John repeated.

"Don't thank me. Do your job well. That's the thanks I want."

"This means so much to me, to work with you."

"You will be working for the most part with my research assistant, Seb Moran, along with associate professor James Moriarty."

John read the note. "Thank you again. I'll call him as soon as I get back to my dorm."

As his professor nodded goodbye, John straightened his shoulders, pulling them back. He marched up the aisle and out the doors with a snap to his step. Maybe this hadn't turned out to be such a bad day after all.

"John, wait!" Molly called after him. "Mind if I walk along?"

She had to have been waiting for him. That was rather sweet.

"I'm headed back to my dorm. Where you going?"

"I'm headed to Chem," she said.

John slowed to let Molly catch up. He had to walk past the Chemistry building to get back to Baker Hall anyway. 

Molly did have nice legs accented by a red and purple flowered skirt so short that it barely covered her behind. It didn't even take a light breeze to send the skirt up to reveal her cute little tushy along with matching red and purple print panties. They reminded John of bathing suit bottoms or what girls wore under the tennis skirts. Walking next to her John noticed she was getting plenty of appreciative head turns and smiles from male and few female students.

"I noticed Sherlock wasn't in Chem lectures at all last week."

John blinked. He should have known. Sure she liked John—but her interest was in Sherlock, not him. Now he understood the dress and pink lip gloss. John also supposed she just didn't happen to be sitting near the door at the auditorium: she was waiting for John purely to ask about Sherlock.

"Chemistry's is the largest lecture hall on campus," she said, "but I'm certain he wasn't there."

"He wasn't. Sherlock told me the class was a waste of his time. He only plans on going to labs and taking the midterm and final."

"He wasn't in Calc yesterday either."

John stopped at the newspaper rack in front of Hatcher Library. He picked up a copy of the _Ann Arbor News_ and the student paper, the _Michigan Daily_, and stuffed them both under his arm to read later.

"He said it was boring, but he does plan to go to at least some of the lectures," John said.

"What's the skinny on him?" she asked.

Molly seemed a nice enough person. A part of him wanted to tell her more about Sherlock—his habits, his sly smile, and those sparkling eyes that changed by degrees as he spoke. But he didn't feel right about it. Or maybe he didn't want to share, which made John especially uneasy after that dream last night.

"Is he...you know...seeing anyone?"

For a moment he thought she was going to come out and ask if Sherlock was gay. It wasn't his place to tell her that Sherlock wasn't into girls. And the available part? Best to be noncommittal.

"I'm not sure."

"How can you be not sure? You're his roommate. Don't you talk about girls and sex and that? I thought that's what guys talked about when having beers."

"We don't."

They stopped in front of the Chem building. Molly was shifting her weight, waiting for him to continue.

"I don't think he has many friends," John finally said."He's not into large lecture halls. He calls most people 'idiots.' I think he includes some of his professors in that description."

Molly laughed. "Yeah, I know. He's so cynical, so smart."

"And good-looking," John added pointedly. "But I don't think he's in a relationship or looking for one."

Molly frowned.

How could he blame Molly for crushing on Sherlock when he had to admit that he did too? Sure the man was a giant dick, but those chiseled cheekbones, cupid-bow lips, and eyes that went from green to blue in a flash made up for some of his shortcomings. And that didn't even include his baritone British accent and those long long legs. Or that he really was an interesting person once he decided to let down his guard and open up like he did last night.

And while he was playing the guitar, John was pretty certain that Sherlock had been actually flirting with him. No way he was sharing that with Molly. He didn't begin to know what to do with that tidbit.

He hated to disappoint her, but she'd find out soon enough. Molly waved a half-hearted goodbye as she climbed the steps of the Chem building, and John continued on his way back to his dorm. On his way he pulled out the _Ann Arbor News_ and skimmed the headlines. He had just swung his backpack over his shoulder farther so he could open up the paper and read the next section when a headline caught his eye: "I-94 Rest Area Sting Operation in Progress after Recent Murder."

John froze in the middle of the sidewalk. The next moment, he heard fast footfalls and a body careened into him, sending John tumbling to the ground. John's knuckles immediately began to burn from hitting the pavement. He sat up to glare at whoever had run into him. He was sitting on the pavement next to John, brushing off his trouser legs. A shake of his head, sent thick, dark-haired bangs from over his eyes. Those eyes met John's with intensity. Not angry, but curious.

The man was dressed like a student, except he had been carrying a briefcase. An expensive one, from the look of it. The man pulled himself up to his feet before John could offer him a hand.

"Terribly sorry about that," he said to John.

"That's fine. It happens," John said. Another British guy. John wondered how so many of them were fetching up here in the Upper Midwest.

"I wasn't watching where I was going," he said, brushing off the sleeve of his shirt. "I'm going to be late to my lecture."

"No, I stopped in front of you. I'm the one who should apologize. Are you okay?"

He picked up his leather briefcase. "I'm fine. Not a scratch. And you?"

"Perfectly fine."

"Oh, no, you're hurt," he gasped out dramatically. He reached out and grasped John's hand, inspecting his knuckles. "You should get this cleaned up."

"It's not bad. I'm on my way back to my dorm."

A couple walked near them, gazing curiously at their hands together. John's first reaction was to yank his away. Instead, he shook the man's hand.

"Name's John Watson." He gave a final shake and let go.

"Yes, I know," he replied and winked at him. "I'm Associate Professor James Moriarty. I understand we'll be working together." He nodded at John, who stood stunned. Moriarty looked at his watch. "Oh, the time! Must get to class. I'm already late."

As the associate professor ran off in the other direction, John picked up his backpack and newspapers. What a coincidence to run into him of all people! Too many coincidences...

He wondered what he'd do exactly in this work study for Professor Doyle, and what kind of research he would be doing. He realized he didn't know much about where Doyle's particular interests other than what the professor told them on the first day of class. His specialty was cognitive psychology and his most recent work was on the malleability of human memory. If this was indeed what John would be working on, John grew excited. Memory was fascinating to him. He supposed he could get a leg up on the work and go to the library and look up some of the professor's current research.

He turned toward the library when he felt his knuckles throb. He looked down at his hand and saw the papers clutched there.

The rush excitement he felt was replaced with apprehension. John found a bench and took a seat, placing his backpack next to him.

He closed his eyes, then opened the paper. He slowly opened them and reluctantly began to read. Sweat broke out on his forehead. It was at that same rest area, 818. A man killed and the body found behind the building in the brush—probably not far from where he and that stranger had had sex...

John folded the paper and set it in his lap. This could have been _him_. _He_ could be the one in the dead in the bushes or arrested for public indecency or sodomy.

He sat there wondering how the day had turned raw and skinned up like his knuckles.

\--------------------

Sherlock stopped at what students referred to as "the Party Store" to buy a few foodstuffs. More of the Pringles, cigarettes, a loaf of the horrible American bread that John seemed to like, along with a jar of peanut butter and a deck of cards.

When he burst into the dorm room and set the bag on the chair next to the bed with a flourish, John didn't make eye contact at all. Instead, he sat on his bed, legs crossed, his eyes fixed on his biology book. Sherlock walked around next the bed to get his attention, but John continued to read—or seemed to read.

Sherlock immediately noticed the bandages on John's knuckles. No other injuries were apparent although one of the knees of his jeans was torn. He'd fallen.

His textbook was open to chapter three on inorganic molecules, but John's eyes weren't tracking down the page. Instead, he stared at the middle of that page, his right hand clutching the bedspread and his foot bobbing nervously. His behavior was out of character. John always greeted him, even if it was just a grunt or wave.

Something was not right. John was agitated, distracted. He wondered if it had to do with his fall. Something _was_ wrong.

Sherlock quickly scanned the room for answers. On the desk was a note ripped from the personal notepad of Professor Doyle. A phone number and address was included for a Seb Moran. The name was familiar. John had written notes beneath: a meeting time and place on campus. That was not the problem.

There were also two newspapers on the desk that hadn't been there this morning. Sherlock stepped closer. One of the papers was folded in half and the headline facing up revealed the answer for John's recalcitrance.

Sherlock picked up the shopping bag and slipped around the desk, pulling the contents out and on to the desk as he skimmed the article.

John's foot immediately began to bob faster, but his eyes remained glued to the page.

Finally Sherlock understood why it was so distressing to John. He felt a pang of panic himself as he read. This could prove to be a most unfortunate turn. Sherlock knew that this might well be a major setback to his plan to get John out of the closet and into his bed. A scare like this would only push John deeper inside himself. This called for an immediate distraction on Sherlock's part. He picked up the new deck of cards and opened them.

He jogged a few cards out from hand to hand, snapping them to get John's attention.

He'd loved card tricks as a boy. He considered himself an artist in sleight of hand and the skill of which he could shuffle and misdirect a performance. His large hands allowed him to palm cards with ease, but it was the speed and precision he had achieved through long hours of practice on which he most prided himself.

As a boy, he began simple and twirled them between his thumb, index and middle finger, learning how to create captivating motions and stunning displays. But over the years, he learned that it was essential to use all the fingers in the presentation. Sherlock dazzled those who watched. Even his mum and dad were impressed.

After snapping them around to get John's attention, he began with deft butterfly cuts before he rapidly shuffled them, flicking and flipping the cards between his fingers.

John's attention was turning toward him. His eyes shifted between his book and Sherlock's card play.

"What? Not as interesting as that _Tinker Toy Sailor Spy_ story you were reading yesterday?" Sherlock asked. He sat down on the bed, leaving a few feet between them, deftly shuffling with one hand, then seamlessly flicking them off to the other.

John looked up, brows drawn together in confusion, then barked out a laugh. "You mean _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_. You don't know it? It's by John le Carré. How could you not know that? He's British."

Sherlock smirked. John's eyes were now trained on this hands.

"You assume because he came from the same country that I would know him?" He made sure to use his best mocking tone as twirled the cards before dealing them out onto the bed. John's eyes were no longer stuck to his textbook.

"No, I assume most anyone who speaks English would know who le Carré is. Best-selling author. Wrote _The Spy Who Came in from the Cold_, worked for MI5 and -6."

"Doesn't everybody?" Sherlock asked.

As he played the game, he flipped his cards with flourish, noting how closely John now watched his hands.

"You also assume that I care about that kind of drivel," Sherlock added.

"It's not drivel." John's jaw was locked tight. This line of discussion wasn't relaxing him. The cards helped, though.

"You're pretty good," John said.

"It has always been my goal to perform as deftly as I play violin. Both are much like languages but instead of our mouths, we use the hands. You understand. It's the same with your guitar when you run through your blues progression."

"I don't think I've ever seen that game of solitaire before."

"We call it patience in the UK, and this particular game of patience is referred to as 'strategy'."

"You have fast hands," John remarked.

"So I've been told." Sherlock let the corner of his mouth turn up. John was blushing beneath his scruffy stubble. It was a look Sherlock enjoyed.

"I'd think espionage novels would be your kind of thing."

Interesting that John was returning to the point of conflict. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John enjoyed bumping heads. _Good._

"_My kind of thing_, as you say, is not reading a book where I know what's going to happen after the first page, much like that biology textbook you're reading."

John rolled his eyes.

"Yet you play 'patience.'" John sighed and turned the page. "I supposed you read this textbook in grade school."

"Why yes, or, at least, your equivalent of grade school. I was about eleven at the time."

"So what did you read for fun?" John shut his biology text and set it behind him.

"That _was_ what I read for fun."

"You didn't read fiction?"

"Of course I did. I still do on occasion. As boy I was very fond of Robert Louis Stevenson."

"Don't tell me...you read _Treasure Island_? How old were you when you read that? Five?" John asked.

He was five, but he didn't admit it. He'd also read _Kidnapped_. This distraction was working well for both of them. John had moved closer to him with a foot of space between them for the cards, and John was fascinated and fascinating. As Sherlock flipped and slipped the cards with his well-trained fingers, he noticed John licking his lips. Another promising sign!

But Sherlock forced himself remained cautious. Better to gradually increase the bids and build the pot slowly, than to push all your chips into the pile at once and lose it all. Sherlock would be love to be the pot to be won. He needed John to be willing to gamble a bit.

_"Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ is my favorite of his," John ventured. "But I didn't read that until high school. You read that when you were five too?"

"No. I didn't read that one until I was older. Mummy said it was too disturbing."

John frowned. The spectre of the news article raised its ugly head again. Sherlock recognized his error. While it was in fact most distressing to Sherlock as well—that it could have been them—he pushed the thought aside. 

"What did you read when you were five?" Sherlock asked.

"Dick and Jane and Go Dog Go."

"I'm not familiar with those titles," Sherlock said.

"I bet you aren't. They're children's reading textbooks. I don't know if you ever read any of those."

"My mum read nursery rhymes to me every evening before bed until I was four."

"I used to love those—I still love the rhyme and meter in them. It's part of where my love for music and fantasy started. My mom read to my sister and me a lot when we kids. I used to beg her to read _Tom Sawyer_ and _Robinson Crusoe_. My sister loved _Little House on the Prairie_. She wanted to be Laura Ingalls."

Sherlock nodded. He'd read the first two himself when he was younger, but it was him mum who had read Laura Engles stories to him.

John slid closer, till their knees touched. Sherlock's heart beat faster. His breath caught in his throat. Their knees were still touching as he flipped over the last card.

"Did you just win?" John gasped and leaned back, breaking contact.

Sherlock felt his heart rate drop. 

"I did."

"I don't believe you just won at solitaire...er _patience_! I never win at it."

"I win frequently."

"I see you do." John sat up straight and pushed his biology text to the side. "From the way you shuffle and talk about it, I bet you've gambled a bit."

"A bit."

"Do you know how to play euchre?" John asked.

"No, I'm not familiar with that game."

John smiled. Sherlock wasn't certain how to interpret the smile. But then Sherlock noted a sparkle in his eyes. He bounced on the bed with glee and his smile widened.

"You're living in Michigan: you will be. Something tells me you're going to be a wonderful partner." He patted Sherlock on the back.

A rush of heat raced through the hand on his back, down his spine. His heart began to race again.

Success.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the new chapter with some background John and Sherlock with a touch of voyeuristic indulgence on Sherlock’s part. Thank you to Recently Folded who continues to push me to strengthen my stories.

John's family didn't have much. They once did. John liked to reminisce about those times when his family was the cliché of The American Dream with the white picket fence, two kids, two cars, and a dog. It was John's once-upon-a-time to relive in his head. The older he got, the further he was from this past life, the more it became just a fairy tale.

During those dream days, his dad had worked at Gray Iron Castings, a foundry in Jackson. It had been demanding, cruel work. But John and his sister gave his dad a hero's welcome each and every night. They'd throw their arms around their dad's legs and he would waltz around the living room with the two children dangling off of him. John loved how his dad's belly would shake as he laughed.

He watched as his mom's and dad's fingers intertwined, and she moved into step with them in three-four time, partners in dance.

John and Harry giggled happily at their parents kissing. 

"Ellen, sing for us," his father'd say to her.

His mom sang. "When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, 'What will I be?'," she began. Better than Doris Day. John hung on and sang along as they all twirled across the living room floor to "Que, Sera, Sera."

Even after so many years, John still yearned to have those days back. Every evening, it seemed, there were those hearty sit-down dinners with his mom's melt-in-your-mouth pot roast and creamy mashed potatoes with rich gravy practically dripping off his plate. His mom would become so immersed and delighted in his dad's stories that she'd forget her manners and plant her elbows on the table and look at him with love in her eyes.

Back then, every weekday evening seemed a celebration and every weekend a vacation.

He hadn't realized it at the time, but his dad had made a decent living during those years. And despite the demands of his job, his dad had seemed happy then. His blue eyes sparkled with accomplishment; his body was muscled and lean from long hours of exertion. John bragged to his friends about how his dad could lift his mum up off the floor and twirl her around like she was made of feathers.

But John's most prized memory was of his eighth birthday: the day his dad took him to work.

"I want the boys at the foundry ta see what a fine young man you are," he'd bragged.

John remembered his mom setting new tan shorts and a blue checkered short-sleeved shirt on his bed. He remembered the butterflies in his belly as he held his dad's hand. And as he walked between the large foundry doors, he made sure he matched his dad step for step. Inside, the sweltering heat of July was nothing compared to the furnace blast of pure hell of the foundry. But that didn't matter. John felt like he was in heaven standing next to his father as he got pats on the back and boy-howdies from all his co-workers.

_"That your son?"_

_"Fine lookin' young man ya got there!"_

_"Wish my son had interest in my work like yours."_

As they stepped out on to the foundry floor, John's jaw dropped. The main floor was the size of a football field. Massive vats filled with glowing red molten metal shot wild sparks into the air. The machinery swinging around him seemed to have arms and legs that writhed from the oppressive heat. It was terrifying! He clung closer to his father, his protector. His dad grew in stature that day. This was the father John remembered in his fairy tale past: that brave and masterful iron worker. The efficient foreman. His eternal hero.

From that day forward until the day the foundry closed, John never again resented the odd, foul smell on his dad's clothes because he knew that that was the invisible badge of honor his dad wore.

Life was rich then. A freshly-painted white ranch house with blue shutters in a quiet cul de sac with an attached garage was their castle. During those early days, his mom stayed home to take care of John and his sister, Harry.

On almost every summer weekend during those early years, his dad would play baseball with John in the back yard. They'd take turns hitting and pitching. John's hands got sweaty and nervous, but he'd swing the bat as hard as he could, partly just to please his dad.

"That a boy!" his dad would yelp and cheer when John hit a pop up. Harry played outfield. She'd squint into the sun and let half of the balls hit the ground, but she had a grand time collecting dandelions while waiting for a ball to come her way.

His mom would laugh at them as she weeded and tended to her garden. She'd always planted tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, and lettuce in the back. In the front yard, every spring, his mom planted petunias, marigolds, and other bright flowers. Even before John knew what the flowers were called, he still loved to watch them grow and bloom. And then he looked forward to fall, when he and Harry would help his mom can tomatoes and rake leaves.

Every Wednesday after his shift, his dad dropped in at John's Tavern for a beer with his pals.

"It's just for a few laughs, Ellen," his dad used to tell his mom.

After the foundry closed, his dad took a job with the county. For three years he plowed snow off the roads in winter and, in the summer, worked in maintenance, mowing the city's park lawns.

His dad still went to the tavern on Wednesday, but gradually that one night turned to a few nights that turned into every weeknight. One beer turned to three beers, then more. John saw his dad less and less. He missed throwing the baseball on weekends. It hurt his heart to see his mom set a plate at the table that never got dirty.

When his dad did come home for dinner, he shoveled the cold dinner in as he watched some stupid crime drama on TV.

It was when John lost his father to the bar all weekend that John felt his life began to grow darker. His dad lived at John's Tavern. When John was younger, he'd thought he liked the idea of a tavern with his name. It was almost like his dad was hanging out with him. But he came to hate the place as the years passed. He'd lost his dad to John's Tavern.

He realized only later that it was alcohol that had snatched his father away.

John never will forget that first night his father didn't come home at all. His mother panicked and so did Harry. John was fourteen and more than old enough to understand what it meant. He played at being brave that night and pretended he was a man. He let his mom and sister cry on his shoulder; he'd wiped their tears, and told them it would be alright. All the while, his heart ached. Later that night he let himself cry into his pillow.

The next day, his mom's eyes were swollen and her face blotched when his dad stumbled in the door, still drunk. Harry left for school, but he couldn't go, wouldn't go. Not to leave his mom to this man who pretended that he was still their father.

No, he'd never lifted a hand to his mom, and no, he'd never said one mean word. But she was no longer there to him. To John, his father's apathy and neglect were far worse than any overt domestic violence. It was never the same after that night. He was more drunk than sober. All the time.

John had to be the man of the house now. He had to take care of his mom and his sister. John vowed he'd never treat anyone like his dad had treated his mom.

Mom would still plant petunias and marigolds. Three weeks later after his dad was finally fired, John thought that one good thing might follow from it: his father couldn't afford to go to John's Tavern.

He was wrong. His father drank even more than before, now that he had all day to do it. John doesn't know why he clung onto that idea. Maybe it was because he did love his father still with all his heart, and until that moment, John believed the father he loved would return.

After that, his dad only worked odd jobs, if at all. His mother didn't plant petunias or marigolds because she was too busy working as a cashier at the local Kroger store. Life became a series of mindless habits. The entire family became a mirror of his father's apathy. The house was not a home. It was listless kisses on the cheek, obligatory goodbyes, and aloof I-love-you's. Still, they remained a family and his parents remained married. John couldn't figure out why. They slept in separate rooms and rarely spoke. She served him dinner, when he was around, in his thread-bare lazy boy in front of the TV, where he'd complain that his mashed potatoes were cold and the gravy lumpy.

Eventually, the father John had loved, the one who played with him, danced with him, tucked him in bed, was gone forever.

Out of sheer stubbornness, his mom kept the house from going into foreclosure. John and Harry did their best to help. John got his first job as a paperboy when times were good, delivering for the _Jackson Citizen Patriot_. Later, when times weren't so good, he had to settle for a job at the local Dairy Queen, working with his sister. He'd helped Harry get hired there. Harry could make a mean hot-fudge sundae and Mr. Wilson, the owner, treated John as a second son.

He hated not being able to hang out with his friends, go to movies or bowling on Saturday nights. With every sacrifice he made, he cursed his father—butnever to his face.

No, never to his face. He kept it all inside. _They_ kept it all inside, their family secret that everyone knew. John started getting headaches. His mom stopped singing and his sister started drinking. John didn't want to admit to himself he hated his own father, but he did.

John struggled to save for college, and so did his mom. Even Harry chipped in. But between keeping the electricity on, having clean underwear, and being able to eat lunch, there wasn't much left over.

There wasn't much left for college.

That was the sum of John's life savings. He had memories, some good, some bad. He had a family. He had good grades, a high SAT score, and an athletic scholarship to help pay his tuition. He thanked God for the federal grants that made up some of the difference. He'd put in for some small student loans he qualified for, but there was still a gap.

He still needed more money to be able to stay at U of M. He still had headaches.

He'd looked around for a part-time job that wouldn't eat up too much of his time. John had had to turn down one job at a local grocery that was just too demanding of his time. He couldn't work thirty hours a week and still maintain his grades and keep his scholarships. He'd applied to at least twenty stores and shops in the area, had had two interviews, but nothing came of his efforts in the end.

John wondered how he'd make it without an extra income.

Today, within a few hours' time, two opportunities had knocked.

He had seen fliers about the campus regarding euchre tournaments. Although they were for charity events, John knew joining these could also lead to private games where he was sure he could make some cash with Sherlock as his partner.

He hadn't wanted to linger on his long tapered fingers, but they were also an incentive.

He didn't even have to convince Sherlock. It had been almost too easy.

"I've done this many times," Sherlock had said. "Cards can be very lucrative. I could use some extra spending money."

Sitting next to each other on the bed so closely, their knees had touched.

At first Sherlock had seemed unsurprised regarding John's work study job with professor Doyle.

"You must have been expecting the call. You applied for the program," Sherlock said.

Did nothing impress him?

"It's part of the federal financial aid and PELL grant. Professor Doyle said I was recommended."

"Did he also knock you to the ground when you were late?" Sherlock had said with a chuckle.

He'd nodded at John's bandaged hand. He even started to reach out to touch it. John's breath caught in his throat, but Sherlock changed his mind and flipped over a card instead.

"How did you know about me being late?" John asked. "You'd already left this morning when I took off."

"You left your bed unmade. You never do that unless you are in a rush," Sherlock said. "I was joking in regard to the professor—but you know that. You did, however, run into someone."

John brushed his hands over his face. Was there anything he didn't know? "That leads me to the odd part of my day."

"Odd? In what way?" Sherlock had asked.

"It was who I ran into, or, I should say, who ran into me."

Sherlock crossed his long legs and leaned forward. "Hmm. Molly?"

Sherlock inched closer and John's heart began to pound in his ears. He had to sit on his hands to keep them from shaking.

"Well, yeah. I did sit with her. And walked her to her next class, but that's not who I ran into. It was the associate professor I'm going to be working with for the work study program," John had blurted out. "Along with Sebastian Moran. But he wasn't there...I mean I didn't run into Moran, only the associate professor. The one I'm going to be working with." John bit his lip. Why was he suddenly so tongue tied? "He's English too, well, Moran is, _and_ the guy who ran into me, _you know_, the associate professor."

Sherlock lips curled up in a wicked smile as he leaned in, a breath away from John's mouth.

"_British_. As is Professor Doyle and fifty-six million others who live in the United Kingdom. I fail to see how that's relevant," Sherlock said. "It is, however, most unusual that he of all people should run into to you."

"I know! Imagine the odds. I mean, having Associate Professor James Moriarty come racing into me like that."

Sherlock's head whipped back and his eyes widened.

"You said _Moriarty_?" Sherlock repeated.

"Why? Do you know him?" he asked. "If that's the case, then it really is a small world."

John was certain Sherlock's jaw twitched.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"I know him." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he was no longer leaning forward. His spine was stiff and straight and the cards he'd been shuffling had frozen in his hands.

"How?" John asked. "Where?"

"I met him in London two years ago. He is brilliant and..."

John swore his roommate's voice dropped an octave.

Sherlock's eyes turned dark. John had seen them change many times over the last weeks, but he'd never seen this stormy transformation. John felt uneasy and a bit, well, turned on.

Which was a most unfortunate effect. John stretched his arms out in front of him to hide his lap, leaned back against the headboard of the bed, and waited for Sherlock to continue.

"He's a bit touched," Sherlock added.

_"Touched_? What do you mean by that?" John tilted his head.

"You should stay far away from him," Sherlock said. "Far, far away. I'd say another county, but I'll grant you that wouldn't be practical."

John was shocked at how agitated Sherlock had suddenly become. Cards scattered as Sherlock fell backward. He lurched up and smacked his head against a wooden slat on the bottom of the bunk bed.

In a blink, Sherlock rolled out of the bed, rubbing the back of his head. His shins rested against the mattress to keep his balance.

The look in Sherlock's eyes confused John. There clearly was concern for John. Who was this Moriarty? John was also becoming concerned. Sherlock jumped away from the bed and began pacing around the room, his arms raised up as if he were asking for guidance from above.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? What's wrong with Moriarty?" John asked.

"Nothing and everything."

John began to climb out of the bed. He wondered if Sherlock hadn't smoked some bad weed. He'd just heard about this pot that was laced with paraquat, that supposedly made people freak.

"I am fine. No need to check me over. I know what you're thinking. I haven't taken any drugs." John watched as Sherlock reined in whatever demon had possessed him and calmly leaned over to begin gathering up the cards mechanically.

"Do not trust him," Sherlock warned. His eyes met John's and narrowed. His brow wrinkled one second; the next his long legs catapulted him up into his own bed. The bed slats above John's head sagged under Sherlock's weight.

"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing? Why shouldn't I trust Moriarty?"

_Silence_. John kicked the bottom of the bed.

"Sherlock! This is weird. What did he do that makes you sure I shouldn't trust him?"

_More silence_.

"Hey!" John kicked the mattress above his head once more. It was as if the last hour had never happened except that a single card, a two of hearts, was left on John's bed.

John rolled out of his bed in frustration. Feet planted on the floor, he stretched up to see a Sherlock Holmes, flat on his back with his eyes peacefully shut and fingers angelically steepled under his chin.

"Sherlock?"John asked with concern. His roommate seemed to have fallen into a trance-like state. John was beginning to question whether it wasn't Sherlock who was the one a bit touched.

"Hey! Sherlock!" John waved his hands in front of his face. _Still silence_.

"It hardly matters if Moriarty is Jack the Ripper," John said to his immobile roommate.

John reached over and took Sherlock's pulse. It was slower than normal, but John knew heart rate lowered with meditation, and that seemed to be what Sherlock was doing. A coping mechanism for being over-stimulated, John supposed.

John continued to talk to Sherlock. He probably didn't hear a thing, but he felt he needed to say it. "I need this job. Besides I already called Seb Moran and told him I'd take it. I'll be working with him most anyway. I'm meeting Moran at eight tomorrow morning in the quad."

Sherlock's eyelids didn't flutter. Perfectly still. Like a corpse.

"You know what? Fuck you!" John said. "You tell me this shit then don't explain a thing? Then you jump up into your bed and do this...whatever it is...meditate? Who do you think you are, the Maharishi Yogi or something? Screw you. I need this job."

John fell back onto his bed. Wasn't this just the way his luck always went? Everything seems to be falling into place, then someone tries to come in and smash it all to hell. Like his dad drunk on whiskey falling into the kitchen table and knocking the model of his '68 Chevy Camaro onto the tile floor and busting it to smithereens.

What was his roommate's problem? Sherlock's reaction had to rate as one of the fucking strangest things John had ever witnessed. What was Sherlock's relationship to Associate Professor Moriarty? Maybe they were lovers and it hadn't ended well. John doubted being a fuck-buddy would cause such a reaction but either way, John found he didn't like that idea much at all.

The reaction though. It couldn't have been something trivial that had happened between them. Not just a lover's disagreement. This wasn't some bad ending to a love song.

John supposed he'd find out soon enough if the peckerhead ever woke up from his self-induced trance.

He didn't want to think about his roommate this much, but he couldn't seem to stop. Just like he couldn't stop dreaming about his roommate.

Christ, the man was just inches above him in the bed, and John couldn't stop thinking about him or that wicked reoccurring dream he kept having about his roommate. The dreams were so vivid, so life-like. He'd had dreams like this before, but not about sex and especially not about sex with a man.

In it he was the one seducing Sherlock, kissing him, stroking him, whispering what he wanted to do to him. The haunting opening of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" played as the soundtrack to the vivid wet dream. He was picturing himself on a boat on a river with trees literally filled with tangerines under marmalade skies. All the while the boat rocked with them making love inside while cellophane flowers towered over their heads.

Sherlock was calling to him in the dream. "_John, John_."

He vividly recalled how Sherlock looked beneath him, his lips full and wet from John's kisses, his kaleidoscope eyes half-lidded and changing.

He lay sprawled out inside the boat, arms and legs hanging over the sides with John between them. The boat rocked and the waves splashed over the sides as John sucked his cock. He felt the weight of Sherlock's long legs as he lifted them over his shoulders. He pushed inside. John could still feel how warm it was inside Sherlock's ass and how the slats on the bottom of the boat pinched his knees.

He'd read a book once on dreams and it said that dreams about sex really weren't about sex. He didn't believe it. Over the last few days, he'd thought about that reoccurring dream dozens of times. And about sex. With Sherlock. How could that be good? It was a bit not good, if you asked him.

And now, he had something else to fixate on: the news article.

He couldn't stop thinking about the rest area.

Or that night. He couldn't stop the thoughts in the back of his brain.

He decided he needed a distraction. He crawled out of bed and pulled the guitar out from under and opened the case. But his lucky pick and his capo weren't inside.

_What the fuck?_

He thought back to the last time he'd used it. He'd probably left them on the bed and they'd fallen between the mattress and the wall during the night. He didn't feel like digging around under the bed.

He plucked and strummed the strings with his fingers instead. Sherlock remained in the bunk above him, still in his trance, so he studied. Had to get up early tomorrow for class. He yawned as he put on his sweats and went to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock's heart pounded. Fear made him brittle and cold. While it could confuse the senses and cloud the mind, once mastered, fear became a useful tool. He would use it now, but John was distracting him from taming it completely. Instead, he'd have to retreat into his mind palace in order to determine Moriarty's next possible move and plan against it. What was James planning? He was so unpredictable. Sherlock liked unpredictable: that was what had drawn him to Moriarty in the beginning.

His heightened senses schooled his panic. There had been only a few times in Sherlock's life when he'd felt mind-numbing fear. He'd learned from each how to break free again. He'd learned from Moriarty, just as he'd learned that first time when he was eight, when he thought he'd lost his dog, Redbeard.

His family had been on holiday. His mum loved St. Anges in the Isles of Scilly, and they often went there on short vacations. He hated leaving Redbeard behind. Sherlock begged and begged to take his best friend with him that summer. It was Mycroft who finally convinced their parents that Sherlock was responsible enough to watch over Redbeard.

The first few days were perfect. He played pirates and took care of his friend and best mate. They spent time on the sandbar and in exploring the rocky coves. On their last full day there, they went to one of Sherlock's favorite spots: the lighthouse. He'd had to wait until then because he was forbidden to go up there alone. With Mycroft and his father not far away, he raced up to the lighthouse. On the way, a rabbit caught Redbeard's eye, and he bounded off after it. Sherlock raced behind, but Redbeard was too fast and too determined to catch the rabbit. Sherlock called and called for hours. His beloved dog was gone and they were to leave the next day!

He and Mycroft and their father searched and searched and searched. Sherlock's throat ached but he kept on calling. He blamed himself for not taking proper precautions. He should have had Redbeard on his leash. He shouldn't have become distracted. His greatest fear was that Redbeard had fallen off the cliff near the lighthouse, into the ocean to drown.

He had been crying, collapsed sweaty and exhausted in the middle of a lane, when he heard the crunch of Mycroft's boots approaching. Sherlock wiped his face and raised his head to see his brother, his arms filled with a wet but excited Redbeard. Sherlock raced up to his big brother, who gently lowered Redbeard into Sherlock's arms.

Redbeard was almost as big as Sherlock, but he didn't mind the weight or the sloppy kisses licking the tears from his face or Redbeard's wet tail slapping his legs.

He hugged his dog tightly before finally setting him down. Redbeard limped but followed. Mycroft said he had something stuck in his paw. Redbeard recovered, but Sherlock never forgot. He made a point of training Redbeard. With one word, "stay," Redbeard remained safe and close. Always.

Sherlock had other fears. He learned to embrace his fears and learned from each of them. Fear brought caution in the face of danger. Fear was nightmares, or a big brother who'd jump from behind the bushes and scare him. Fear was his own bloody hands after falling through his window to test its strength, and it was a cat drowned in a well by cruel old man. It was a bad hair day and wrinkled trousers. But nothing, nothing came close to fearing James Moriarty.

When John had spoken that name, Sherlock's first instinct had been to flee the room. But he stood fast against his fear that James Moriarty was _here_. He'd thought he'd left James behind. And James Moriarty was _here_. He thought he'd left James behind, but he hadn't.

Fear was also so much more manageable with someone around who cared. Redbeard had cared. He used to jump on the bed and huddle up to next to Sherlock after one of his nightmares.

And now John cared. Only the other night, John had awakened Sherlock from one of his night terrors. He'd expressed true concern and had asked him what was wrong. No one ever asked Sherlock about them; they just told him they were "nothing" and to "go back to sleep" or ignored them altogether. The morning after, his mum would take him into the kitchen, hand him one of her homemade chocolate biscuits, and set him down at the table. But she never once asked, "What's wrong with my William?"

No one did. Until now. Until John.

He'd thought James cared, but all James cared about was pain and suffering.

Part of Sherlock wanted to tell John everything, even how he had underestimated Moriarty's obsession.

Sherlock had had many reasons for leaving London, but James Moriarty had topped the list. He hadn't thought Moriarty would follow him across an ocean. Oh, he had been so, so wrong. He'd never underestimate James again.

James enjoyed destruction and death. He had wanted a partner in his perverse joy.

James enjoyed inflicting pain. James was like old man Rogers who lived near their family home who had laughed as he drowned stray cats in his well. Rogers would taunt young Sherlock, believing that Sherlock shared that love. But he didn't. Sherlock loved cats. He hated hearing their cries for help. He would cover his ears and cry.

James would have loved it. He loved hearing people cry.

He wanted Sherlock to enjoy it with him. When Sherlock refused, James taunted Sherlock. He tried to force Sherlock to cry. He loved hearing Sherlock suffer.

Even as Sherlock fled deeper into his mind palace, he felt John calling him. Touching his wrist, his neck. Making sure Sherlock was alright. It was the most comforting realization. Someone thought him worthy of friendship, for himself. He'd misjudged emotion in the past, but he was certain he'd read John correctly.

Misjudging emotion was what had brought him together with James in the first place. James had said he understood emotions and could help Sherlock bridge that gap. Later Sherlock realized that while James understood them, he also didn't care about them. At least, not about anyone's except his own.

He had been attracted to Jim. In the beginning. Sherlock had admired how James had simply inserted himself into the crime scene the night they met in Stropshire.

The man had understood both the science of a Westwood suit and the science of deduction.

James didn't blink at the corpse: a body sawn neatly in two at the waist with only her bottom half remaining. He stepped eagerly around the empty cartons and torn trash bags that vomited from an overflowing skip next to the body. He flipped aside an empty pizza box with his pristine black leather shoe before he carefully knelt down to examine what remained of the body garnished with garbage.

"And you are?" Sherlock had asked, captivated.

"James Moriarty, Consulting Forensic Psychologist, at your service, Mr. Holmes."

"That's Sherlock."

"And James to you.

"A bit over-kill, wouldn't you say?" He'd giggled at the corpse and its condition. "A botched magic trick, a bit of Abracadabra gone wrong. Oops, my hand slipped with the saw!"

Moriarty stood back up, brushing off his trousers. His eyes never left the body as he circled it. Both kept an ear toward Lestrade as he talked to the boy who had been the one to discover the woman's body—or what was left of it. The lad had mistaken the corpse for a tossed-out mannequin until he'd stepped closer. Lestrade had taken him aside to calm him.

"Another one?" Anderson had asked, walking up to Moriarty and looking him up and down.

"Another one, as in another dashingly handsome genius?" James had responded. He leered at Sherlock as he spoke. 

With a sly smile and a wink in Sherlock's direction, Moriarty knelt down next to the body. "I will try my best to dazzle Mr. Holmes. But you, do go away...you're in my light," he said to Anderson.

Sherlock enjoyed the grimace on Anderson's face as he looked around in astonishment before stepping back from the body.

"Sadly, this was no magic trick gone wrong," Moriarty continued. "Her torso was severed shortly after death with a large, industrial saw. The time of death was within the last hour. The genitals were mutilated after death. Perfectly ghastly."

Despite his words, Moriarty's voice was hungry. Looking back much later, Sherlock recognized that his tone was not at all like Sherlock's detached demeanor at a crime scene.

Sherlock had already deduced that the crime scene must be close by. His eyes met Moriarty's.Both heads turned to an old building that looked to be a lumberyard. They had both come to the same conclusion.

"That would be the place. It's dark. After hours, I suppose," Moriarty said to Sherlock. He nodded to Anderson. "I would think that you might pick up that little crime kit of yours and do something productive."

"What do you propose I do? I've already collected all of the evidence here in the performance of my _professional_ duties."

"Oh, do try not be an ignoramus!" Sherlock said. "Even you should be able to follow the trail of blood and intestines that begins about fifty metres from here."

"There's no trail of anything," Anderson said. "I looked."

"_That's because you never looked underneath_ the trash bags!" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

He stalked off toward the lumber store with Moriarty step for step beside him.

As if his insulting Anderson weren't enough to gain Sherlock's admiration, Moriarty's intimate knowledge of the killer's mind was irresistible. He was obviously a superior consulting forensic psychologist.

As they followed the gory trail and hastened toward the long, ramshackle of a building, Moriarty demonstrated to Sherlock his profile of the murderer. He spun around in circles with the grace of a ballet dancer, his flowing gestures refining each deduction.

With an elegant wave of his arm, Moriarty declared that killer had kept the top half—not as a souvenirbut to become one with the victim. He nimbly hopped over some intestines and landed on the same foot, meeting Lestrade and Anderson, who stood inspecting some of the viscera.

"The killer knew his victim well and intimately," Moriarty explained to Sherlock. "Splitting her in half was to disassociate himself. For him, it was about separating his seething lust from his chaste love. I find the whole Madonna/whore complex lacks creativity, but, to each his own."

Looking back, Sherlock should have known then that Moriarty loved the kill considerably more than the case. He reveled in the cruelty of it all, and the more cruel the kill, the more he was titillated by it. Sherlock may not have always liked humans or thought them worthy of his time, but he never particularly enjoyed another's pain (unless it was Anderson's, but he so often annoyingly deserved it).

"Okay, if you're such an expert on murders, where's the rest of her?" Anderson challenged.

Moriarty snorted. "Why he kept the top half, of course!"

But when he had no other reason to, Moriarty couldn't resist wooing others. He complimented Lestrade's diplomacy with Anderson, his patience with the young lad. He even admired Lestrade's hair, which made Lestrade blush and Sherlock jealous.

He asked Sherlock to dinner that night. Sherlock agreed. Finally, he'd thought, someone like-minded. He let Sherlock pick the time and place.

In hindsight, Sherlock never should have had dinner at eight with him at Angelo's and should have taken Angelo's advice when he took Sherlock aside and whispered to him, "You can do better." But if you've never had, how can one know what was better?

While the candles flickered, James talked about himself. Sherlock realized the Jim's stories about the psyches of deviant bank robbers and ax murderers targeted their common interests in homicide and the science of deduction. James cleverly omitted any of clues to his past from all his cases. 

From the beginning, Moriarty's clothing revealed nothing of him other than style. Not one hint of a stray pet hair or worn cuff or speck of dirt on his suit or shoes. His hands were carefully manicured, his suit impeccable, but told nothing. That was it. He was a blank.

He became a puzzle to be solved. He never should have gone on the second date, he never should have gone home with him, but Moriarty piqued the detective inside him. Maybe there he could find something of the man, but his flat was as blank a slate as Moriarty. But there were no books or papers about, no hints of interest, no skulls—just luxurious white walls and simple, nihilistic chrome furnishings, along with a leviathan of a leather couch.

They sat on it, a foot apart. James poured Cognac from a lead crystal decanter.

He never should have had that drink.

He woke with his head pounding and found his arms straining over his head, his wrists handcuffed to the James' brass bed. James smirked as sat on the edge, caressing Sherlock's bare legs. Wrapped in a purple velvet robe, he was obviously aroused, but did nothing but pet Sherlock.

"Not to worry. I won't harm you unless you want," James crooned. "Not until you give me permission."

"I see you didn't require my consent to undress me."

"Your clothes were so...binding. Those buttons on your shirt were about to pop on their own." He slid up the bed closer to Sherlock's head. "I do want you, but I will wait if you do not want this."

Since then, Sherlock spent hours in his mind palace determining why he let James fuck him. He knew the psychological reasons why he might accept being drugged, disrobed, and handcuffed to bedposts. In the end, it happened. 

They had sex. James never forced it. Sherlock wanted it. Yes, the restraints freed his inhibitions. He could let it happen to him. He cried out and whimpered and begged. He, who was always in such tight control, gave away his control. He abandoned it all.

Afterwards, when James refused to remove the cuffs, Sherlock should have been afraid. Instead he was fascinated. Would he torture him? Would he try to kill him? The cuffs were tight, but it was easy enough to escape yet he did not. He watched warily and waited as Moriarty paced the room naked.

What did Moriarty do? He _talked_. Or bragged. He boasted of murders he'd witnessed (or more likely committed) and crimes he'd encountered (more of the same) and his devotion to both. The denouement of the story was that James wanted a playmate—someone to frolic with in the grand Gothic tradition of murder and mayhem. In the end, it wasn't Sherlock's body or mind he wanted. It was his soul.

Sherlock said he would think about it. He did. But his soul was not something Sherlock was willing to part with.

He slipped out of the cuffs and out of Moriary's bed. But that didn't deter James. He followed him, sent him flowers. And when that didn't work, he sent him bodies and love notes: to Sherlock Holmes, With Love from Your Greatest Admirer.

Sherlock still felt the guilt that he was cause for innocent deaths. At the first crimes, James was there beside him. He came to each crime scene to catch the maniac who did this. Later, after Sherlock revealed his suspicions to Lestrade, Sherlock was certain James was always there, watching them.

James was cruel, James was clever. James left only notes that could never be traced to him.

But Moriarty made a mistake. Or he hadn't. Sherlock believed Moriarty had intentionally left the evidence. Either way it didn't matter. The evidence tied James to the crimes, but it also tied Sherlock. The only thing that saved Sherlock from arrest was that Lestrade knew Moriarty's cunning handiwork. He saw the trap Moriarty set. That by implicating himself, he was trying to force Sherlock into his world.

The only solution was to take the evidence. Months passed and Moriarty did nothing.

Sherlock thought it had worked. No more bodies, and the killing spree ended. When he'd come to the United States, he thought it might be over—that Moriarty had gone on to his next obsession.

Obviously, not only had Moriarty not forgotten, but he brought a man with him just as unbalanced.

Inside his mind palace he tried to calm himself and sort out what to tell John, and to determine what James was doing here.

He'd never misjudge Moriarty's need to destroy again.

If he revealed it all to John, he'd put John in danger. It wasn't that he didn't trust John. Although Sherlock had taken risks in the past, trusted, only to be tossed aside, he didn't want to lose John as a friend. He wasn't concerned that sex would interfere with his friendship. He wanted John Watson, and already had a taste of what sex was like with him. He wanted it again.

The problem was that Sherlock realized he was becoming preoccupied with John. Romantic entanglements complicated sex. He'd only known John a few weeks, yet he felt as if he had known John for his entire life. 

Why?

He couldn't define John, and that was why he knew John was dangerous to his heart.

He needed him as a friend. As a sex partner. He'd have to make sure that if they did have sex, it was only sex.

Inside his mind palace, he distinctly heard John call out his name slowly. There it was again, _Sherlock_. Not a call for help or asking to borrow a pen. Not checking to see if roommate were okay. No. He drew out his name like it was a song. A siren's call. 

Sherlock came out of the mind palace.

The entire bed rocked ever so gently. Perfect rhythm.

_Sherlock_.

He was...yes. John had to be...wanking off in his sleep. And he wasn't one of those who jerked off sloppy and spasmodic. Slow and steady.

To hear his own name on those lips. _Again. _What lewd and libidinous acts he could preform with that mouth. All Sherlock need was return to that rest area in his mind palace and feel the burn and stretch of that night.

The call again. _God!_ He could never ignore that rich, long, and lustful call.

Sherlock rolled to the edge of his bed and poked his head over the edge of the bed to watch. Below was John, head back, mouth thrown open, and his hand working under the covers. Even in sleep the man licked his lips. But it was the spectacle of his grandmother's quilt tented high over his erection that drew Sherlock unblinking stare. Sherlock swallowed back in awe and licked his own lips.

No mind palace was necessary to send him back to the night when he was on his hands and knees being fucked by that magnificent cock. Sherlock wished he could crawl down next to him and lift that quilt and gaze beneath to actually watch John's performance. John's hips jerked in perfect four-four time.

Sherlock flopped back into the bed, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to get a grip. Instead his own hand reached inside his pants and he stroked himself in time with John's hips. His own cock jerked and wept in his palm.

He had to see. Sherlock crawled to the edge of his bed again and looked over as John called his name once more.

Sherlock pushed his pants lower as his cock throbbed at the same tempo. All the while his never let his eyes leave the sight of John.

When John gasped and his hips jerked sporadically, Sherlock's hips hitched as his cock spurted into his hand. He'd made a bit of a mess of himself. He should change the sheets. Instead, he rolled away from the wet spot and went to sleep.

_____________

It had been two days since Sherlock witnessed John's wet dream, two days since Sherlock discovered Moriarty's unwelcome appearance, and two days of waiting.

Sherlock hated waiting. It was only one step ahead of boring and another behind hot dogs.

Why was something so revolting named after man's best friend and furry companion? The ingredients weren't even fit for a dog and even didn't rise to the standards of the infamous banger—almost as revolting as the American wiener. The buns that came with it were just as disgustingly bland and spongy.

The only thing remotely appealing about a hot dog was John Watson's lips wrapped around one.

At lunch Sherlock tried once again to fend off all of John's questions regarding Moriarty, but instead he was forced to watch as John devoured two atrocious frankfurters dripping relish, mustard, and ketchup.

"What happened between the two of you?" he asked between bites.

As his eyes were trained on John's mouth, Sherlock wondered if he could expire from sexual frustration.

"If you must know, he handcuffed me to a bed and left me there," Sherlock said, and crossed his arms.

There. That should shut John up. But it didn't.

"Really? That's all," John said. "I'm sure you got right out of them, what with your being double-jointed and all. I've seen you sitting and doing that yoga right over there on the rug next to the desk. Do you have bones?"

John took another bite. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and swore to himself he would end up dying from priapism.

While eating the second hot dog, mustard spilled over and dripped down his fingers.

"All the work study arrangements have been made through Sebastian Moran," he said and licked his fingertips. "I haven't seen Moriarty again since I ran into him."

A few hours later, John was in biology class, and Sherlock was left alone in the dorm room. He'd hesitated to call Mycroft earlier, but his hand hovered over the phone before deciding to ring him. A long-suffering sigh escaped Sherlock's lips as he dialed the international call.

The first conversation was short. Through the hiss and static, words echoed, but Mycroft said he would call back.

"Don't be long," Sherlock said as his goodbye.

For two hours, Sherlock paced the room. He needed Mycroft to call back before John returned. It had taken Mycroft all of three hours, and John_ had_ returned. He'd immediately made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, grabbed a warm Coke, and sprawled out on his bed with his biology text. He scanned and read, mult-tasking as he took notes and turned pages with one hand and fed himself with the other.

The phone broke John's concentration, and Sherlock noticed how John raised an eyebrow as Sherlock uncharacteristically raced to pick up the phone.

"Yes. It is about time," Sherlock spat out. His own voice didn't echo back. The connection was much better. It seemed that Mycroft's clandestine connections to the British Government afforded a pristine line.

"Mummy taught you better. She would be so disappointed at how you greet your big brother."

The smug tone of Mycroft's left Sherlock no doubt that his brother intended to exact some sort of favor in return, but Sherlock needed to know who Sebastian Moran was to James Moriarty.

"Oh, do get on with it," Sherlock said gruffly.

Sherlock immediately saw John's hand hesitate with the Coke can up to his lips. He gave Sherlock another curious lift of his eyebrows before returning to his text.

"You are not alone, are you little brother?" Mycroft said. "Keeping it from your new roommate. Tisk, tisk. Sherlock, this is no way to begin a relationship," Mycroft chided.

"It's not a relationship," Sherlock said gruffly. What would Mycroft know about them anyway? His brother was a monk of some type—his only love, the British government.

Sherlock watched John closely. The hushed word _relationship_ had caught John's attention, yet he was politely pretending not to listen.

"What, if anything, have you learned?" Sherlock asked.

"Moran has no criminal record, not even a minor traffic violation. Until only recently, he was a British Army officer with a blemish-free military record, attaining the rank of colonel. His superiors thought he would become career, but he left after his current tour. He was in many delicate operations, most notably, in Northern Ireland. The files _were_ sealed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but remained silent, waiting for his brother to continue. Sherlock noted how John monitored the phone call with an ear obviously to the conversation. John continued to look up and down from his book to Sherlock with unabashed interest.

"He is a keen marksman and most expeditious in carrying out assignments," Mycroft continued. "His unique talents sent him on numerous covert missions. He is a man who knows how to keep his head low and his mouth closed, and follow orders."

Sherlock surmised that made him the perfect enlistee for James' operations.

"As for connections to James Moriarty, he and Moran did not—as Americans say—run in the same circles. Moriarty, as you well know, is an Oxford man and Moran, while highly intelligent, has had no formal college education. The only link my men have found between them was a meeting last August at Trafalgar Square. I have a few innocuous photos taken of it. Moran was rather dashing in uniform. Moriarty flitted about him in his usual manic state like a bee buzzing around a flower."

Sherlock knew that Moriarty meticulously profiled every possible conquest's psychological state. He was one. As Mycroft implied, James sensed Moran's homosexual proclivities, but he also noted homicidal tendencies. For James to enlist the man, Moran must have had both.

"You said you'd had him followed. How did you not know he was in the United States."

Not a question. Not a question at all. Sherlock shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched. He wanted Mycroft to admit he knew and explain to him why he wasn't told this essential information. Sherlock shot a glance at John on the bed, openly watching Sherlock's reaction. He wasn't an idiot, but he couldn't possible know this was about Moriarty.

"You knew," Sherlock said simply.

"Sherlock, do not play games with me. I know it was the other way around. That is why you are in the horrid mitten-shaped land of swamps and mosquitoes. You followed Moriarty."

"It's called Michigan, the Great Lakes State—advertised as such on every license plate on every vehicle in this state. And I did no such thing! He followed me."

"You took evidence to spare him from conviction."

"I took evidence because he was using it to frame me!"

With those words, Sherlock knew he'd had to have a heart to heart with John after this conversation. He'd have no choice.

"Then why was he there a full two months before you arrived for the summer session? I fail to see your connection with this."

"Because, he must have found out that I had applied to the University of Michigan!"

Sherlock looked directly in John's eyes. His forehead no longer creased in curiosity. No, it was scrunched in anger.

"Do keep telling yourself your little fairy tales. I will never understand your fascination with that psychopath. I was so hoping your new dalliance with your roommate would let you put aside this obsession."

_Of course. Mycroft thinks he's obsessed! _Sherlock was suddenly sorry he had never revealed the extent of Moriarty's obsession with him although he couldn't believe that Mycroft didn't know.

"I trust you have some explaining to do on your end. I will let you go. Goodbye for now, dear brother, and do be careful."

Sherlock didn't bother to say goodbye. He slammed the receiver down.

"Do you mind telling me what that was all about?" John asked.

"It was my brother."

"Of course it was your brother—your cloak and dagger brother who runs the British government and apparently has no problem finding dirt on others." John's face was turning bright red. "It's why you think you needed to do it that concerns me. Why?"

John ran his hands through his hair in anger and frustration. Sherlock carefully took a seat in the desk chair, facing John. He could see the pulse throbbing in John's neck and how John took a deep breath to regain control before he began talking again.

"Look... I've heard all the fucking messages your brother has left for you. You need to tell me straight out why this associate professor has you so tied up in knots that you're willing to ask a favor from the brother who you've been trying to avoid for months."

"_What about the drunken messages from your sister? We could discuss her instead_," Sherlock spat out.

"This is not about my sister! You don't have to do this—deflect from the real issue. Listen, it must be big if you can tell me he handcuffed you and leave it at that. What could top that? It has to be something...I don't know...like really horrible."

Maybe John would understand, but could he keep it a secret. John might not say anything to the man, but his face was like a proverbial open book.

"It is personal," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "So this is more than just handcuffing and leaving you on the bed. Did he...?"

"Rape me? No. I agreed, agreed to it all. But that isn't why I'm concerned for your safety. Just telling you this, it puts you at risk. He's, well, murdered people. He's actually what you'd call a serial killer. He rather enjoys it all."

"What?" John pushed his books aside and moved to the edge of the bed. "No. You're certain? I mean, he didn't seem the type."

"Most serial killers don't seem the type. They relish hiding in plain sight. Some pose as simple, ordinary men. Others project a congenial and very engaging demeanor, as does Moriarty. Do not mistake this for weakness in them—it is their strength. They wait and play with their prey." Sherlock walked back and forth in front of the beds.

"If he's such a danger, why isn't he in jail or at least taken off the street?"

"I was working on that before, but he..."

How could he admit this to John without losing his respect and trust? Best to be as vague as possible.

"What, Sherlock? You were his prey, weren't you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. He hated telling him this. What would John think? "No, I was not. At least not in that respect. He wanted my attention. What he wants from me is to initiate me into his twisted world. He wanted me as a partner in every respect. After what my brother revealed, I am certain he has taken Moran for that role in my stead."

John sat, mouth open like a fish at the market.

"Wait, if he's taken Moran in the role he wanted for you, why is he even here?"

"I'm certain he still hopes to convince me, if not coerce me, to his way of thinking. If not, I may well become his prey, and so, by being my roommate, may you."

"That makes me, what? A way to get to you."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "That is exactly why I warned you."

"You should have said something sooner."

"I wasn't certain how you would take it—or if you'd believe me." Sherlock believed he had told John just enough to keep him from certain harm.

"Listen, Sherlock, shouldn't you go to the police or something? I mean, if this guy is that dangerous, you need some sort of protection or at least let them know they have a serial killer living off-campus. Go to that Lestrade fellow who keeps calling."

"It's not that easy. The evidence is only circumstantial. No charges have been levied. I was working with Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard—but Moriarty blocked us at every turn. James Moriarty is more than just a serial killer, John. I am afraid that he's much more than that."

John laughed. "How much worse could he be? This is like something out of one of those true crime magazines my mom used to read."

"I do believe, that he will be in one someday. However, until that time, we must watch our back. That Mycroft has men watching."

Sherlock also suspected that Mycroft had the room bugged—not that he'd reveal that bit of information to John. As soon as John left for his next class, Sherlock planned to scour the room for them.

"What about that Lestrade? The one who left a message about evidence?" John asked."Considering what you've told me, I'm thinking it's a good idea for you to return his calls and work with him. That and I can help keep an eye on Moran and Moriarty with the work study."

"No, John! You must quit this job! I can't have you doing this. Moran is what you call a sharpshooter. He is an expert marksman trained by the British secret service. "

"I'm a pretty good shot myself, and good in a fight. I'm not an expert marksman, but frankly Sherlock, from what you've told me, that means it's not going to matter how far away I am from them. In fact, there's a reason for the expression 'keep your friends close, and your enemies closer."

"Yes, Machiavelli."

"No, Michael Coreleone."

"Who?"

"You know, _The Godfather_?"

"Oh, American crime boss. Yes. That would make consummate sense, but I don't want you risking your life."

"What? This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me. You think I'm gonna say no to this? I'm keeping the job."

A warmth crept into Sherlock's chest and spread throughout his body. He felt, what was it that he felt. He recalled how Moriarty had once called Sherlock his soulmate. The man had been highly mistaken. No. Here sitting in front of Sherlock was his true soulmate: an unobtrusive, aspiring doctor with a charming smile and brilliant blue eyes, who would walk unafraid next to him.

He only need ask. But that was it, wasn't it? Sherlock didn't need to ask. John willingly wanted to walk beside him.

"There's something else. I don't know if it was by choice or not, but I get the feeling you've been pretty much alone in all this until now," John said.

The man was a treasure! How did John understand him so, so well?

"Promise me," John said, "promise me you won't go off by yourself to confront these two. Tell me, let me help, or at least call your spooky brother or this Lestrade from Scotland Yard."

"I shall try my best to do it."

"Well, yeah, you do that. I want a living roommate. I hate to have to get another." John pulled his backpack next to him. "I hate to leave like this, but I got to get to class. I think you have one too, or aren't you going to that again today?"

"I really need to make an appearance. We should be off."

Sherlock awkwardly stood. What do you say to someone who has offered their own life to help you?

"Thank you, John." It was the least he could say. The most he could do was hug him. John let him.

"No problem," John mumbled into Sherlock's hair.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have commented. And thank you to my new beta, hotshoegain. I appreciate you stepping up and giving support.

Sherlock waited five minutes after John left. He had to make certain John hadn't turned around to get something he'd forgotten. John did that often: his biology book, his notebook on the bed, his wallet on the dresser. Sherlock cracked opened the dorm room door and poked his head through to inspect the hallway. Gone. Good, John wouldn't return until after class. He had at least three hours and thirty-five minutes—and possibly another half hour to hour if John stopped at the market. Sherlock twirled around before he began the search of the room. 

Mycroft had done this often enough. The nosy bastard loved to listen in. Sherlock found the best way to find them all was through a systematic search in an inward spiral pattern. It was a most effective method when searching for evidence. The first place he found a listening device lacked imagination even for one of Mycroft's minions: inside of the lamp shade. The second one wasn't much better: it was tucked under John's bed attached to the frame. 

Sherlock savagely crushed the two under his foot. His brother would never consider two bugs sufficient. He continued with his pattern. 

He did the same with the desk. His knees popped when he climbed beneath it, but his reward was to find a third stuck to the underside of the desk. He gleefully shattered it with a forceful rap of John's stapler. Sherlock stood up and brushed himself off. 

He yanked out all the dresser drawers and with his fingertips carefully felt the insides and underneath. He meticulously inspected the record player; picked it up, checked the stylus, and turntable. He collected his lock-picking tools with his small screwdriver since he was forced to dismantle the back, but found nothing. 

_ They really should dust under the desk more often.  _ He inspected the portable TV and removed the back. Nothing. He took the plate off the bottom of the phone, unscrewed the receivers with no result. Sherlock rubbed his chin and glared at the answering machine.  _ Of course! _

The small screwdrivers he had would not be sufficient. He needed the tiny one that John kept in his electric guitar case. He opened the case. Condoms still there, he noted. 

Sherlock held his breath as he removed the back plate of the answering machine. He wasn’t so worried about the machine as he was stripping the head of the screwdriver. At last! Sherlock jiggled the plate loose. There it was with its tiny shiny round listening ear ready to hear all they said! Sherlock held it up against the light from the lamp. It was the same as the rest. He took the same stapler, and bashed it with a smirk. That should hold off Mycroft listening in—at least for a little while.

Sherlock took the broom and dustpan from the corner of the room and swept up the evidence along with the dust under the desk. He hid the evidence in one of John's paper grocery bags and threw it into the rubbish. He finished his spiral search.

After destroying some of his brother's previous devices, James had told Sherlock once that only simpletons used such listening devices. While his brother was no simpleton, the men who his brother enlisted certainly were. 

While Mycroft was no fool, he was mistaken when it came to Moriarty. His brother had confused the focus of Sherlock's obsession with the murderer with passion. 

Sherlock made a second quick search of his clothing. Not really a closet—more a metal rod in the corner with assorted shirts on cheap wire hangers. He fingered the linings for any bugs. He unhooked John's jean jacket. It smelled of campfire smoke and John Watson's soap. He closed his eyes. 

Nothing there. He hung it back up, then removed one of his two bespoke suits from a wooden hanger. Part two of his day included dressing the part.

While he enjoyed the comfort of bell-bottom Levis and t shirts, it wasn't him. His hands caressed his suit. Mycroft suggested that he should dress to fit in with the university students. He rarely listened to him, but in this case, he agreed. Still, it felt splendid to return to these. He hummed as he buttoned up his silk dress shirt and brushed off his suit coat before slipping his arms inside. With a satisfied sigh, he slipped on his favorite cashmere socks. Oh, how he'd missed this. 

On the way not-to-class, his black Paul Markman chukka boots clicked on the pavement as he wondered why he even cared what John Watson thought. He didn't want John to know he was out without him. He never would have bothered with anyone else let alone allow himself to open up to them. John became his exception to every rule Sherlock had ever made for himself. 

While Sherlock believed in logic and rational thought, despite it all, Sherlock was constant in the belief that John Watson was worthy of some of his trust and possibly much more. It was the much more that rankled him. How much more?

Yet, despite how he felt, there remained a gap. A chasm really. One big omission that he didn't tell John because, why? Sherlock did care. John's safety was tantamount. There were actually moments earlier when Sherlock had been tempted to tell John where they first met and all about his past with Moriarty, but he couldn't risk it. Besides endangering him, Sherlock feared that John would think less of him. And if he knew it was Sherlock that night with him? Sherlock was certain he would no longer have a roommate. 

Sherlock did believe John would come around. But he needed more time and more evidence. He needed to come to understand what he was. Sherlock didn't want to think about what might happen if John rejected him. 

He realized he was more than a little infatuated with Watson. What he felt for John was on a level deeper than he ever had experienced. Moriarty complicated the situation. 

Was it possible he was becoming as obsessed with John as Moriarty was with him? Sherlock rejected that possibility.  _ No _ .  _ He was not _ . What he felt for John was … honest? true? That Sherlock was not completely forthcoming with all information was inconsequential since it was in part to protect John. The matter of the evidence, for example: although John wouldn't be happy what was hidden. John would never know unless he told him. He'd done an excellent job hiding it since it was still in place. Sherlock knew Mycroft's men, as well as Moriarty, had searched for it. 

If John knew that twice a day John stood next to that evidence hidden inside the wall of the common bathroom, he’d be more than upset with Sherlock—he would be positively livid. If John found out that every day, every person on their floor stood next to a bomb, he would probably rip Sherlock's arms off. No matter that it was securely taped up in an envelope inside that bathroom wall and completely harmless. Some people would get unnecessarily riled if they found out they were sitting on the loo next to disabled bomb. 

Sherlock detoured to the Registrar’s office under the pretense that he was from admin. He found little about Moran and even less about Moriarty there. He decided that his next stop should be Human Resources across campus where he could access employee records. 

Americans were even more trusting than Brits when confronted with men wearing bespoke suits. Sherlock put on his actor face, including the simulated smile and self-assured manner. 

The room was decorated in ghastly olive green and orange. Sherlock shuddered. He was thankful he didn't have to wait long. 

"And you are?" asked an over-kind and over-trusting young woman behind the desk. 

"Baskin Robbins, chief assistant to the examination director. I have need of these records." 

She gave him an odd look.

"Like the ice cream?" she asked.

"Yes, the ice cream," he blinked. "I do get that all the time."

She giggled. "I bet you do."

Sherlock had no idea if the examination director had an assistant, but he did have a piece of the director's stationary with a note he typed just this morning. 

He handed her the note, making sure that his hand lingered on hers a bit longer than was necessary.

She hesitated and blushed, but she took the memo and read it quickly. "Looks in order. If you wait here a moment, I'll see if the records you need are available."

Within twelve minutes, he was guided by the too-kind, and by now partially-smitten, young lady to a conference room and handed Moran's and Moriarty's records. She nodded to a table where Sherlock could peruse the files at his leisure. The records confirmed what his brother had already told Sherlock with a new tidbit of information: Moran had ensconced himself within the psych department almost at the same time Moriarty had. 

There was no doubt that Moriarty was biding his time and intentionally holding off his meeting with John. He was waiting for Sherlock to confront him. 

As John would say, "Fat chance."

Two could wait. Until then, Sherlock spent the remainder of the afternoon in the lower levels of the library, reviewing Professor AC Doyle's past research on memory manipulation. Unsurprisingly, very little of his most recent work was on file. Sherlock would have to resort to more covert means. 

He toyed with the idea of taking John with him, but decided he didn't want to risk John getting caught. Being thrown out of U of M would mean very little to Sherlock. He'd been thrown out of other places far more prestigious (both Oxford and Buckingham Palace), but the consequences for John would be irreversible. 

Sherlock made it back to the dorm in time to change back into sweatpants and his “I'm A Pepper” t-shirt before John returned. While he would love to wow John with his tailored Savile Row, he didn't want to raise John's suspicions that he'd been nosing about without him. 

He was sitting, reading  _ Psychology Today _ with his feet on the desk. He thought the article on memory would have some relevance, but he was now considering gouging out his eyes as it was mindless pap. He had the television (that didn't have a bug in it) on for white noise with Channel 50,  _ Bill Kennedy At the Movies _ playing. At least the music was good, Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue."

John came breezing in, carrying a pizza box with The Count of Antipasto crown and scepter stamped on the top. John brushed aside some of his notebooks on the desk and placed the red and green box proudly on the desk like an offering.

"Had a few drinks at the local university hangout, I see," Sherlock observed. 

"Yeah, and I was told that they have the best pizza around campus. Didn't know what you liked on yours, so I stuck with pepperoni and ham. I like mushrooms, but I wasn't sure about you, so I got it on half."

From their make-shift kitchen area on the top of the dresser, John grabbed two plates (horrid, horrid white plastic dishes with hideous red tulips) and a stack of napkins next to the toaster. One look at the arches on them, and Sherlock knew that John had absconded with them from McDonalds. 

"Dig in!" John said.

Despite the dishes, it had been at least twelve hours since he last fed his transport, and the basil and cheese from the pizza made his mouth water. 

“I’m not a hobbit. You may have the side with the mushrooms,” Sherlock said.

“Is that some sort of joke about my height?” John asked, but he gave a crooked smile that made Sherlock’s insides tingle. 

“We don’t have to watch this,” Sherlock said. “I only had it on for background noise. I need it to think.”

“This is good. What is it?”

“Rhapsody in Blue. It’s about Gershwin’s life. Or we could listen to records if you want? Don’t know what your taste is, but I have a few here ...” John walked over.

Sherlock hesitated. He was certain that he reassembled the record player correctly, but … he didn’t turn it on to check.

“No, we can watch this. Gershwin’s music is superb,” Sherlock suggested. “Although the story of his life is very distorted.”

“Yeah, I get that. He died young, tragically. Brain tumor, I believe.”

“And he was most probably gay …” added Sherlock. “His affairs with women were mere subterfuge. Above all, his music came first. Relationships were secondary. He never married—that in itself does not make him gay, but most telling are his lyrics.”

“Like?”

“For example, the song ‘The Man I Love.’ Clearly the lyrics speak for themselves. He was made to revise them to deflect the homosexual undertones. And there was the last song he wrote, ‘Our Love is Here to Stay’. It could be about a man and a woman. He intentionally omitted he or she.”

John was quiet after those words. Sherlock wondered if he’d pushed him too far into his thoughts. 

They sat together and watched the film loosely based on George Gershwin’s life. Then, John flipped around and found a television program that mixed humor with drama about doctors. It was called M*A*S*H.

John was wearing a soft-blue t-shirt that matched his eyes. He dripped some sauce on it. Usually Sherlock wouldn't notice such things, but sitting on the bed together this close he couldn't help but dab it off with the pilfered napkins and a bit of spit. After the army doctor program, John stood and turned the channel to a film about an American football player. 

"It's a great movie," John said as he sat back down.

Sherlock slipped up into his top bunk but didn't watch. He had been feeling far too comfortable next to John. He still needed to sneak out. As much as he'd love to remove John's shirt and nibble at his neck, he needed to find out Moriarty's purpose here, and he had to do it alone. 

Sherlock ignored the film,  _ Brian's Song _ , waiting for John to fall asleep. He didn't understand the British version of football let along the American. He'd never held any interest in organized sports. Sherlock pretended to fall asleep, but John did not. An hour and a half ticked by, while John was engrossed in the constant melodrama on the telly of this deep friendship—which Sherlock believed was more than friendship. One dying, the other pining away and denying their …  _ feelings _ . Men denying their love. No wonder John had become so entrenched in the storyline. 

Then he heard John sniffling in the bottom bunk. Was he crying at this actor Brian Piccolo? Sherlock supposed it was sad, but he simply could not suspend his disbelief to the same degree that John was capable of. He did feel for this Gale Sayers who stayed with his friend to the end. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock heard John snoring. 

Sherlock climbed softly down from the bunk and slipped quietly into his casual clothes then into the hallway. 

He stealthily made his way across campus to East Hall. Only a few people were about. One couple, either drunk or high, were singing. Sherlock gave a shiver. Americans and their horrid music. Now it was stuck playing over and over in his head:  _ "Feelings, Whoa, whoa, whoa, feelings..."  _

_ Almost as cliché as that hackneyed movie. _

Although it was possible the main entrance to the building would be unlocked, Sherlock wound his way around the building to one of the maintenance doors. Ah! Open! He sauntered in as if he belonged, undetected. Every squeak of his shoe echoed as he entered the service stairway. 

_ Feelings, nothing more than feelings... _

"Get out of my head," Sherlock hissed.

It was dark, but he managed. Still no one else around. Fifth floor door, opened with a groan and the office was at the end of the hallway. Sherlock knelt down in front of the door and scoffed as he picked the lock, disappointed that it wasn't a challenge. Any amateur could pick the lock of most doors in any building on campus. 

_ Trying to forget my feelings of love ... _

Why would that detestable song not leave him alone? Sherlock entered and closed the door behind him, but not before he snapped on the lights, confident no one would notice or care. The lab held nothing of interest, but Sherlock was certain that Moriarty's adjoining office held exactly what he was looking for. 

_ Feelings, for all my life I'll feel it ... _

Sherlock blinked. 

_ And feelings like I'll never had you again in my heart ... _

Replace it! Of course. He'll replace it with another song. He began playing "Barcarolle" by Offenbach mentally on the violin. 

It worked. 

There on Moriarty's old oak desk was a stack of folders. Of course Moriarty would leave them out. An invitation for Sherlock, no doubt. This was a game to James. A game Sherlock was compelled to play. 

Sherlock took a seat in Moriarty's old leather office chair and put his feet up on the desk. He read as he thumbed through the notes, reviewing them until he found Moriarty's recent contributions.

The chair gave a small groan as Sherlock leaned back in it. 

Case by case notes about eyewitnesses to accidents. It was unsurprising to Sherlock how easily memories were altered by suggestion. One control group where no fabricated events were introduced; the other where these false memories were introduced. Each group was asked to relate back the events to Moran or one of the work study assistants, two weeks, then three, then four and so on after the initial event. The results were staggering. Feeding false information about the accident after the event left no doubt that it altered almost all of the memories at least on some level, many entirely. 

Despite the clinical descriptions Sherlock was reading, the underlying sinister implications of such experiments were unmistakable. In the hands of Moriarty and Moran, it smacked of evil intent. For a start, it could allow them to fabricate alibis falsely substantiated by altered memories. 

Sherlock returned to the dorm room expecting John to be asleep. Instead he found John banging on his electric guitar. Without being plugged in, it sounded like a dog being flogged.

"You had no business going there," John spat out. 

_ Feelings, whoa, whoa, whoa, feelings ... _

"Not again!" Sherlock bit out.

He was upset and this insipid song wouldn't leave him alone! Either John knew he'd just broken into the labs and was investigating Moriarty, or John had realized Sherlock found his stash of condoms and lube. Either way, he was caught.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked. Best to feign ignorance. He learned that long ago with his mum and dad. They were forever trying to trick him into confessing to past sins such as smoking and dissecting dead animals on the kitchen counter. 

"You know exactly what I mean. My guitar case and … where have you been?"

Caught on both fronts. Best to fess up to the lesser crime.

_ Whoa, whoa...feelings... _

"As you said before, everyone has secrets," Sherlock said. At least he could possibly reap some rewards with this confession. And maybe get the song out of his head.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"John, I've seen the way you watch me when you think I'm not looking. I know."

John began swallowing and blinking rapidly, and he gripped his guitar white-knuckled against his chest.

"You went out investigating. Without me," John accused. 

Sherlock smirked. Ah, John also was also keen at diverting.

He sat down on John's bed next to him. "You know what I mean."

"What?" John said, mouth opened and closed. "But I'm not gay."

"And I'm not into relationships." 

He wasn't sure if he should risk it. He was about to put his hand on John's knee, but it seemed John had other ideas. He cast his guitar off to the side like a jilted lover and grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and shoved him backwards onto the bed.

As Sherlock rutted against John, he prayed he'd found all the bugs Mycroft had left in the room. 

At least the song was gone.

\-----------------

Before John realized what he was doing, he'd pinned Sherlock to the mattress and stretched out on top of him. He squeezed his eyes tight as reached for Sherlock blindly. 

His brain kept saying, "Just sex, just sex" while his heart remained unsure.

Through the layers of cotton, John repeated the mantra in his head. All he wanted was to get his hands on that naked skin beneath and lick every inch of him without hesitation or regret. It seemed Sherock already had that same idea with his long legs hooked around John's, holding him in place.

"It's only us. No one need ever know but us," Sherlock whispered. 

Sherlock knew, always seemed to know, what John was thinking.

_ His secret, their secret. In this room.  _

Suddenly there were almost too many hands for John to keep track of. His own hands touching Sherlock's face, his hair, his chest. Sherlock's hands. Hands on his ass. Hands on his belly. Sherlock's leather watch strap catching the front of John's t-shirt as it slipped underneath and slid around his waist, pulling him closer. Nails scraped deliciously down his back. 

Between gasps, John opened his eyes to the reality of what he'd initiated. This wasn't his wet dream, yet it didn't feel real. Maybe they weren't on a boat on a river, but his bed was pulsing with heat that was trapped between them. 

Sherlock would, could be  _ his _ secret. His deepest desires, his wishes, his wants. John let go and let it happen. 

He wanted to kiss Sherlock, but John repeated in his head "too much, too much." 

As Sherlock's mouth turned to his, Sherlock hesitated, his lips hovered a breath beneath John's. In a blink he turned his head again, and they were gone.

Sherlock's weight shifted beneath to the side, and he pressed one of his large palms between them against John's chest. With his other hand, fingers explored and traced paths, making every nerve in John tingle. Sherlock moaned deep and shifted his hips under him in approval. He deftly moved his right hand, and unbuttoned his own trousers.

All touch with reality vanished when Sherlock's lips began to suck on John's neck. Marmalade skies appeared behind his eyes. He'd rather live in this new fantastical world with Sherlock’s teeth creating a kaleidoscope of light in his head than the bland real world. 

Only them. Sherlock was right, no one need ever know. But he refrained from the kiss. Instead he licked and sucked and touched, oh how he touched! This bed would become their island paradise. 

His cock filled from Sherlock's throaty moans and writhing under him. John felt Sherlock's hands slip around and shimmy his hips into place until their cocks were aligned, rubbing together.

John's mind turned to the condoms and lube he'd shoved under the pillow. Sherlock’s mouth moved lower down his neck to his shoulder where he kissed a trail. 

One unsteady hand reached under the pillow and pulled them out, which didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock. Not at all. 

Sherlock teeth nipped as he gave a deep, wicked laugh. "My, my. What have you there?" he rumbled. Sherlock looked up at him from under dark, thick eyelashes, and it made John's heart pound in his chest. 

John returned a crooked smile. "You know exactly what these are." 

John slapped them on the mattress next to Sherlock's head. 

"Hmm, you shouldn't let them go to waste," Sherlock said, and raised an eyebrow. 

"I'm not a wasteful person," John said, sitting up between Sherlock's legs. He licked his lips as he looked down at Sherlock, letting his weight rest on this heels as he removed his shirt.

"I agree." 

John no longer wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to see it all: Sherlock sweating as he slipped his t-shirt over his own head, Sherlock as he unzipped his trousers, and as he began to shimmy out of them, pushing them over his slender hips. John bit his lip as Sherlock's cock popped out, the tip wet from precum. John had nothing to compare to this. He only knew that no Christmas gift he ever unwrapped as a child surpassed the way it felt as he watched Sherlock undress.

Eagerly John stripped his sweatpants off, continuing to admire Sherlock's body. His skin was milky white with a sheen of excitement, only a hint of a long-ago tan lines at his waist. His body slim yet fit, chest and hips were elegant and narrow. His nipples dark and erect. John longed to swipe them with his tongue. His hipbones sharp and between them a trail of curly pubic hair the shade of chestnut brown as on his head. His cock stood proud, as long as John's, thinner, like the man, but pink with a rosy-red head just poking out of the foreskin. 

Sherlock handed John the lube and winked at him. As their hands touched, John felt heat on his face and chest as he blushed. He twisted the cap off and liberally poured the liquid into the palm of his hand to warm it. His fingers delighted in touching Sherlock. 

He thought again of his magical mystery tour of a dream and how Sherlock looked in that fantastical land—this was so much better.

He moved between his legs and leaned down again to kiss those cupid bow lips. They tasted like tobacco and mint ice cream. As he sat back up, Sherlock bent his knees and spread his legs wide while tilting his hips up in invitation. 

He gasped as Sherlock grasped John's wrists and guided their hands together between Sherlock's legs. He coaxed John's slick fingers and traced them over his cock and feverishly around Sherlock's balls. He helped John’s fingers feather over his hole. 

"Push them inside me, John. Please. I want to feel your fingers teasing me open."

John took a deep breath along with Sherlock as his index finger breached the tight rim. It felt like Sherlock's pulse throbbed around its tip and John's cock pulsed with it. Sherlock pushed down on John's hand and his finger probed deeper. He moved it around. As a future doctor, he'd read descriptions on how to and feel for a prostate, but this … he knew it immediately from Sherlock's reaction. He gasped with each brush of his finger. 

John became so stimulated by Sherlock's reactions that he hadn't noticed that Sherlock's hands found their way again until Sherlock's smooth palms ghosted over John's cock. John's breath caught in his throat.

One more brush across Sherlock's prostate, and Sherlock moaned. In the same instant, he'd grasped the base of John's thick cock, a clear invitation for John to roll the rubber down his length. John's eyes flicked to the condom wrapper on the pillow next to Sherlock's head.

"John, fuck me."

"I haven't done this … much." 

John's brain buzzed …  _ this being with a man. Once, only the once before. With a woman?  _ He could count on one hand. Well, a few fingers actually.

"You are superb," Sherlock reassured. "Continue."

Lord, Sherlock's hands. So large, yet elegant, tapered fingers. And his baritone voice that's usually steady, was hoarse and trembled with want. John slowly removed his finger from Sherlock. 

His finger had been in Sherlock. In a man. John calmed himself. He'd had his finger inside a few girls. And as a doctor, he'll most likely have his finger inside plenty of asses—Sherlock's was no different, except ... 

Except it was Sherlock. His roommate. He said this would only be sex. Nothing else. But why did Sherlock pick him? He's nothing special. Sure, it's convenient, but Sherlock was incredibly good looking. 

"John, quit thinking. Fuck me." He handed John the condom.

Taking a long breath, John ripped open the wrapper, then rolled the condom over his cock. He watched Sherlock's eyes from under his own lashes as he did.

He had an audience; Sherlock's eyes fixed on John's hands. He'd witnessed Sherlock's unwavering focus. To have it fixed on him made John's heart race. 

John took another deep breath and pushed inside. Sherlock jerked his hips up eagerly, and his mouth dropped open and he moaned. 

At that moment John had a sudden urge to kiss his moan away, but stopped himself. If this was a girl, it would be exactly what he would have done. But Sherlock wasn't, he was a man—always a surprise and more incredible than opening the door to the first day of spring. Sherlock Holmes, who was giving himself to John, but only giving him his body. Not his heart. No relationships. Sex and just sex. That's what he said. No strings. 

No kisses.

John slowly pushed inside. He remembered his last rushed episode—the anonymous fuck. He didn't want this to be the same. Sherlock deserved more than a quick fuck. But he was so tight and his hips pushed against him with such yearning that John worried it would be far too fast. 

He slowed and did multiplication tables in his head. He hated math, so it was a good distraction.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"I’m … never mind." He rocked into Sherlock. 

"God! That's better!"

John knew he was lost then inside those intense cat-like eyes. 

Sherlock came in long ribbons over his stomach, and John buried himself inside Sherlock's heat. He was burning up, like dry kindling in a roaring bonfire. 

Once more John blinked back the need to kiss Sherlock. He had to get away, put distance between them, before this desire to have more than was possible consumed him. 

Holding the base of cock to keep the condom in place, he pulled himself free. Free. Was he really free? No. Not free. Unattached.

With a groan, John sat up and moved across the room before throwing the condom in the trash and grabbing a handful of Kleenexes from the desk. John was fully aware of how closely Sherlock was watching him from the bed. He turned and sat back down next to Sherlock, handing him the tissues.

Sherlock silently wiped himself off, wadded them up and made a perfect shot into the waste can from the bed. 

He raised an eyebrow. "You have excellent hand-eye coordination," John said. Stupid! John thought. What a stupid thing to say to your roommate after you've just had sex. 

What  _ do _ you say to your roommate that after you've fucked? 

"That was good," Sherlock said. He actually winced afterward. "Very satisfying."

"Did I hurt you?"

"I am fine. It's normal when I'm stretched out. You needn't worry that you're harming me in any way although I did have to accommodate a lot. You did a fine job preparing me. Your fingers are very agile. You'll make a fine surgeon. More than fine. Exceptional," Sherlock said. He winced again. John noticed that he was also flushed. 

_ Odd _ . If John didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock was rambling or that he was nervous. He'd seemed so confident while they were...having making love? having sex? fucking? Maybe it was partly an act, or maybe Sherlock was beginning to feel more comfortable around him, and let John see the real him.

"Your athleticism also comes through in your technique," Sherlock added. He was slipping on his sweat pants. "Not that I've done it a lot with athletes. I mean, I've had a bit of sex, but it's not like I have it that regularly … "

"Neither do I." John frowned. Why had he completely mistaken Sherlock's sexual advances early on as coming from someone with vast sexual experience? 

"What is that you're humming?" John asked. "Is that 'Feelings'?"

Sherlock looked up at him. He looked ... guilty?

To John's surprise, he realized it was possibly that Sherlock had been putting on an act. Maybe his room mate was not experienced, just comfortable with who he was, which John thought was remarkably brave. He didn't know much about it, but John doubted people in London were any more accepting of gay men than in the United States. Maybe Sherlock didn't hide it, but that didn't mean he was experienced. Sherlock was comfortable with his desires for other men. For John, it had always been a dark secret. In that respect, Sherlock was much more experienced. 

John watched as Sherlock sat down in the desk chair and flinched.

"Listen, like you said, we'll keep this casual. No relationship other than friendship. It's good, but friends take care of friends," John suggested. "If you need anything, you know, to help if it hurts, I will help." John licked his lips thinking about rubbing first aid cream on Sherlock's asshole. From the expression on Sherlock's face, his mind was going in the same direction.

"Thank you."

"Now are you going to tell me what you were really up to last night?"

Sherlock frowned and tapped his fingers on the desk, then brightened. "Or what? You'll take me over your knee and spank me?"

John felt his face grow hot thinking of the possibility. "Don't tempt me." John shook his head. "You did go out to do some searching without me."

"If you must know, I did it for your own good. I would hate for you to be thrown out of university on my account if we were caught. I don't care, and I have many more options than you with your limited resources."

John frowned. "You can be a real son of a bitch, you know that?"

"And here I thought I was being thoughtful."

"You're being a dick."

"Fair enough."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, what did you learn?" Even if he was a huge horse's ass, he could at least tell him. 

"I learned that they've been busy with their little experiments on human mind manipulation. It's not hard to read between the lines. On the surface it seems that they are following Professor Doyle's work, but they have their own agenda, and it's not about benefiting mankind. I am certain that Moriarty has something planned."

"That means we need to wait to see what he does first? I don't like that idea much. We could just confront him."

John noticed all the signs of a man trying his best to keep himself under tight control. His nostrils flared and the pulse in his neck throbbed. He shut his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin. 

"What is the evidence?"

"The less you know, the safer you are."

John sighed.  _ The evidence _ . "What does that mean?"

"I know you've been searching for it," Sherlock said. "You won't find it. No one will. It's hidden and there it shall remain until… "

"Until what?"

"Until Moriarty is no longer a danger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes on the allusions in this chapter. 
> 
> “I’m a Pepper” T-shirts. I actually had one. Image of what it looked like is here:[I'm a Pepper t-shirt](https://www.etsy.com/in-en/listing/685420343/1970s-dr-pepper-im-a-pepper-t-shirt?show_sold_out_detail=1)
> 
> “Brian’s Song” came out in 1971 and is one of the very best of ABC Movies of the week (in my opinion and many critics). It's about two pro American football players for the Chicago Bears (dah, Bears…), and their deep friendship. The story is told through Gale Sayers (played by Billy Dee Williams) about his friend, Brian Piccolo (played by James Caan), who was diagnosed with terminal cancer after turning pro in 1965. The movie chronicles their friendship until Piccolo’s death in 1970. It’s a real tear jerker (and the theme song "The Hands of Time” has become a standard). Here's a the trailer: [Brian's Song Trailer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_v43lCrn1NQ)
> 
>   
I couldn’t help myself with the parallels between Sherlock and George Gershwin (and hotshoeagain thought I needed to add a bit to it). While there’s always been speculation about George Gershwin’s sexual orientation, friends of George Gershwin's have come out to stating George was gay. At that time lavender marriages, as they were called, were so common in Hollywood that many stars found themselves tied together in loveless marriages (Rudolph Valentino and actress Jean Acker for one). Studios tailored their stars’ images and the press helped guard the secrets. Although Gershwin wasn’t an actor, he was in the public eye. 
> 
> I never particularly liked Morris Albert’s ear worm of a song “Feelings,” but I admit that it has penetrated my brain far too often over the years. Psychologists have analyzed what makes these songs stick in our heads. Here’s an explanation. [APA: Psychologists Identify Key Characteristics Of Earworms ](https://www.apa.org/news/press/releases/2016/11/earworms)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor John has a day. First he comes face-to-face with Moriarty, and then Mycroft phones. At least he gets some quality time with Sherlock.
> 
> Gratitude and thanks to Hotshoe_again for the most excellent beta on this chapter.

John had hoped the jaunt across campus to work study would help clear his mind, but he still couldn’t get it out of his head.

John read somewhere that men think about sex every seven seconds. He really should look it up to see if it was really true. When he goes home to Grass Lake for a visit, he could sneak a peek to find the answer in that Kinsey Report book his mom has, except the thought of his mom reading about sex out of the same book creeped him out. 

He had to admit that he did think about sex a lot, but probably not every seven seconds. He wasn't sure how often other people thought about sex since it's not something people went around asking. He wouldn’t casually turn to Molly in Biology class and say, "Hey, Moll, how often do you think about the horizontal mambo?" He supposed he could ask Sherlock. It might even result in actual sex, which is a lot better thinking about it.

_ Maybe _.

He was starting to rethink that too. Who was he kidding? It was _ the kind _ of sex he was thinking about that got him into trouble. The boys’ locker room, the Rest Area, his roommate. People got beat up and worse for what he did. He’d hoped to feel some sort of relief after letting go and giving in once again to what some call unnatural desires. Instead he felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn’t stop thinking: Did he look different? Are people staring at him and giving him the hairy eyeball? Could they tell “I’m John Watson, and I like it up the ass”? There! Someone was staring at him right now! Looking at him as if he was a freak! Did he have horns sticking out of his head? 

And why was he gay? Does it really matter why, because he is. He finally was able to admit to himself that he was part of the ten percent. That was what that Kinsey Report book said, ten percent of the population desired the same sex. For the last few years John had written off his desires to the part of the report that said half of the male subjects got hard-ons for members of both sexes. John did.

There. That couple. They pointed at him and laughed! People _ could _ tell.

Better to hide. John kept his head down, his neck tucked, and eyes on his feet the rest of the way to his work-study program. 

But inside his head the war raged on. He’d fought the battle over this craving to be with a man and now that he’d finally surrendered, what was he? Gay? Bisexual? He did like women, but … this whole not-a-relationship with Sherlock for example? It was new, and frankly, terrifying. 

Before they'd actually had sex, all he wanted was to bend Sherlock over give it to him. Well, now that he'd had actual sex with Sherlock, he wanted it again. And again. And again. 

And he wanted more. After working so hard to not-kiss Sherlock, all he could think about was his pouty mouth and how it might taste. What was it about you always want what you can't have? 

Even this morning his eyes couldn't stop following those lips: _ "This bagel is delectable ... must you leave your dirty socks on the bed? Do not, I repeat, do not intentionally seek him out. Moriarty is dangerous." _

God, Moriarty. He wondered if Sherlock kissed Moriarty. Probably. While John did feel a twinge of jealousy at the thought, he couldn't help but laugh to himself as he walked. The idea read like one of the stories in his mom's true detective rags: "I Made Out with a Psychopathic Killer." 

His roommate was a terror. But despite the tornado of chaos and insanity Sherlock brought into his life, this was the most fun John had ever had. 

He was living with a man who had a serial killer infatuated with him. That should bother him, but he found it really didn't. What _ did _ bother him? The fact that he didn't get into the work-study on his own merit. When he’d thought that Professor Doyle chose him to help in the research, it was the most bitchin’ thing that ever happened to him. Danged if it wasn’t the case at all. Instead, it was all some grand plan of assistant professor Moriarty's to get back into Sherlock's pants, or something more sinister.

The second Sherlock said it, John had already blown off his warning to stay away. He was intent on finding out more about Moran and Moriarty. He'd be damned if he didn't at least try. If they happened to show up at his work-study, John was going to find out all he could. 

He walked into the psychology building and went to the main reception office where the adorable Miss Stephanie handed him today's stack of folders and his job for the day. He’d have to be dead not to notice her. Hourglass figure, five foot two, eyes of blue, and she was always, always ready with a shining smile. It lit up the lobby. Everyone smiled back at her. 

"If you finish with them before three, bring them down to me; if not, Mr. Moran will be here later. You can take them to his office. Room 543." She smiled. A person would have to be dead to ignore it. When she flashed her big o’ grin, it brought out the cute dimples in her cheeks. 

“Thanks,” John said, and winked back.

“By the way, John, you have toothpaste on your chin,” she said. She reached out and rubbed it off his face.

“Oh,” John said. He felt his face get hot. That was why everyone was laughing. Well, that was a relief. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” she said. She scribbled down her phone number and handed it to him.

John smiled. Any other time he would have flipped over a hot girl handing him her number. He thought of all the possible reasons why he wasn’t happy about it as the elevator door opened.

John took it to the eighth floor and to one of the tiny offices that those in the work-study program used. John flipped on the light. 

He wasn’t excited because … he would probably never call her. It wouldn’t be fair to her if he did. 

John sighed. He’d only planned to work till three o’clock, but if Moran was going to be here after three, he'd take his time with the files and give them to Moran himself. He'd been trying to work out just what Moran did here. The two times he went to his office, nothing was on his desk and he was on the phone listening intently to whomever was on the other end of the line. John suspected it was Moriarty by the way Moran flicked his eyes back and forth at John as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. 

Yes, wait until after three. That way he could avoid Miss Stephanie. 

Sherlock Holmes. That’s why he would never call her.

“Fuck!” John swore as he banged his knee on desk sitting down. 

There was barely room to scoot between the wall and the olive steel tanker desk. With the two filing cabinets, a person could barely move between them. 

A quick flip through today's files, and John saw that this must be what they had collected of Professor Doyle’s work done at other universities. While it was fascinating, it left him alone in a room, taking notes and writing summaries with no exposure to anyone or any opportunity to ask questions. 

John was tapping the pen on the desk. His eyes moved to the clock. Almost three. His head shot up when a knock came on the office door. His heart raced when he heard the voice.

"We meet again!" It said. 

Moriarty entered the room with all the pomp of a king. It reminded John of Shakepeare’s Richard III’s entrance in Act 2. 

John’s mind flashed back to their first meeting, hardly the same royal entrance, but just as effective. Running into John and knocking him to the sidewalk had certainly gotten his attention. 

"Hello," John said. "Associate Professor Moriarty. I wondered when I'd see you again." He tried his best to sound neutral.

"I'm sure you were," he said, gracefully slipping his elegantly lean body between the desk and one of the filing cabinets.

John kept his face cool, his mind clear. He did what Sherlock instructed him to do if he came face to face with the man: observe. Moriarty shut the door quietly behind him and pressed his back flat against it. An artificial smile for the poor masses lingered longer than John liked. John curled his lips hoping he looked indifferent. 

"I see. He's told you—or his version." One long step and he stood looking down at John at the desk. His eyes uncanny, or just creepy. They left John chilled. 

"Sherlock?" John controlled an inner shiver.

"Of course. I assure you, what you've heard is very one-sided," he said. He splayed his fingers out on the desk and leaned forward. "He told you I was obsessed with him. I assure you, it is the other way around. Young Sherlock Holmes is a most troubled young man." 

"He said you're the one obsessed." John tried his best to keep any hint of judgment out of his voice. 

Moriarty waved his hands dramatically. "I am obsessed with many things: Opera, the Crown Jewels, pure mathematics, but not Sherlock Holmes. He is, however, obsessed with me. 

Moriarty took a seat on the edge of the desk and picked up a pen. "I'm certain Sherlock had an elaborate explanation that was most convincing. Sherlock can be very persuasive." Moriarty closed his eyes and sighed deeply before opening them again. He held the pen in his hand and tapped it rhythmically against the hollow of his cheek. "I am not one to tell others of my personal life, but I'm speaking to you because I know that you are living with him, which makes me concerned for your well-being. I also do not want this to interfere with our working relationship."

"He told me you came the U of M before him," John said. "But you knew he applied here.” 

The pen kept its tap, tap, tapping. John found he couldn’t blink as he watched it. A Bic pen. Blue ink. 

"As I said, he is clever! I'm certain he told you that along with other sordid stories. He applied here because he knew I was offered this position over two years ago, but I turned it down. When I told him I was leaving and putting distance between us and accepted the position, he applied here. It was my mistake. I never should have told him." 

John blinked and wondered if any morsel of this was true. How well did he really know Sherlock? He _ had _ come on to John very strong. If it was … 

John tried to sit back as James spun around on the desk, closer to John, but he was wedged tight in between the desk and wall.

He pointed the pen inches from John’s face. 

"He became so obsessed," James said, then moved the pen to his neck, where he began tapping it. "He followed me to my lectures, sent me notes and gifts. And I do blame myself to some degree for all this. I was interested in him in the very beginning. He is a true genius, and as I'm sure you've noticed, very attractive." 

John nodded, watching the pen.

"He was most attentive, and I was very flattered," James said. "But as time passed, his attentions became … suffocating. I broke it off, but he refused to accept it was over." 

John quit watching the pen and studied the man’s face. If the man was lying, he was an incredibly gifted actor. 

"He kept calling me. Leaving me long messages. He threatened to harm himself." 

John heard the concern in his voice. He almost believed, but he recalled another person just as convincing. He'd seen his own father swear that he never took the money from his mother’s purse. John would have believed him, too, if he hadn't seen his father take the money with his own eyes. 

"He threatened me. I still have every letter. His fantasies became so dark that I finally reached out to that brother of his in the government for help. I was shocked when he told me what Sherlock had told him! That I," Moriarty said, pressing his hand to his chest and waving the pen above his head like a wand with the other, "am some sort of psychopath trying to win him over by murdering innocent people." 

Moriarty laughed sadly. "Me? A killer? Do I look like a killer?" 

"No, you don't," John agreed. He didn't. He was rather creepy, but harmless looking. 

"I hate to tell you this, but Sherlock is the black sheep of the family. According to his brother, Mycroft Holmes, his family has had a time with him— with rehab and addiction. His cocaine addiction has troubled them deeply over the last few years. He also told me I was not the first person his little brother has been obsessed with. A young man named Victor Trevor. If you don't believe me, ask Mycroft next time he calls." 

"Wait, how do you know he calls?"

"He always calls. Not that Sherlock ever returns them unless he _ needs _ something." 

He began tapping the pen again. John wondered if it was some sort of nervous habit.

Sherlock did take whatever his brother gave him, but he’d never heard Sherlock ask for a thing from Mycroft. 

"Are those the files Stephanie gave you?" Moriarty asked.

"Yes. I'm done with them." 

"Hand them to me. I can take them for you.”

As John handed the files to Moriarty, John tried to remain stoic.

“I'm sorry to have to tell you all this. I only hope that it's not too late, and he hasn't turned his obsession on you." 

Moriarty stood up and shook his head slowly and gave a pitiful sigh. "Oh, dear. I am so, so sorry," James said. He set the pen back on the desk next to John’s hand.

“What?” John didn't know what gave it away to him. He also felt odd. He took the pen off the desk. Was he that afraid of what he really was?

He watched as Moriarty left. He tapped the pen against the desk as he took a few moments to collect himself. He decided he might as well get back, and he put the pen in his backpack. As he walked toward the dorms, he thought about what James had said, juxtaposed to what Sherlock revealed to him. Something about Moriarty didn't ring true. He hoped it wasn't because he wanted so badly to believe Sherlock. 

On the way home, he thought he'd stop at Zenterman's Delicatessen and order some sandwiches. Ever since Molly had raved about the place, he'd been meaning to stop there. She'd also kept insisting that he get Sherlock to eat more. “He’s too skinny,” she’d said. 

Molly didn’t realize that Sherlock did enjoy eating—he'd just forget to do it when he was off on one of his jaunts. At least that’s what John assumed until now, which brought him back to Moriarty's comments about Sherlock and cocaine. 

He didn't know if that was true. He hadn't seen any hint of coke around the room. He supposed Sherlock would be smart enough to hide it from him. Sherlock did become rather manic at times. If he was using, it hadn’t suppressed his appetite: he ate always ate like a fiend when given the opportunity. He even ate the Campbell's tomato soup with Ritz crackers when John made it for him.

John also didn't need or want another lecture from Molly on making sure Sherlock got enough sustenance. Until today, he'd walked by the deli almost everyday, but there was always a long line. As John stopped and looked through the window, only three customers waited.

John didn't mind picking up food now and then for his roommate. Sure, peanut butter and jelly was cheaper, but they couldn't live on that. And Sherlock “detested” Wonder Bread and “those slices of over-processed food you call American cheese.” 

Sherlock had told John, “Please, please, please feel free to buy takeout—my brother can afford it.”

Take out it was. The prices here were reasonable—at least that was what Molly had said. While Sherlock did tend to forget to eat, he never forgot to pay John back. 

John stepped inside. The bell rang at the door as he entered, and the prices were plastered over-head above and the deli-cases. The place sparkled and the two of the customers who had been in line waiting, walked past him, so the service must be fast, but it was the heavenly aroma and the refrigerated glass display case filled with mouth-watering thinly sliced meats and assorted cheeses, that made John realize that the long lines were there for a reason. 

Molly was right. This place was incredible.

He bought the Pastrami Special and walked straight home, watching his back, expecting to be followed. He wondered if this paranoia was deserved or not. 

As he climbed the steps to their floor, he wondered again about Moriarty’s comment about Sherlock. John had only seen Sherlock smoke pot—nothing else. Sherlock had alluded to other drugs in the past, but John had seen no evidence. Living nuts to butts, it would be hard to hide, but considering Sherlock's tendency to experiment, he wouldn't be surprised that Sherlock might even try heroin just to see how it affected him. 

John stood outside and pressed his ear to the door. No sound. He gave three quick raps to let Sherlock know he was back. Still no peep. John quietly unlocked the door expecting Sherlock to be napping, but no Sherlock.

"Oh, well. I guess his sandwich will keep," he sighed to himself. John set the bag of sandwiches on the desk. Although starved, he needed to unwind and release some of the stress from the day. He sat heavily on his bed, sloughed off his grey hooded sweatshirt, and untied his tennis shoes, then toed them off. 

He flopped back down into the mattress, staring straight up at the top of the bunk. He supposed he could try some of that yoga shit his mom yapped on and on at him about. He tried to will the tension from his limbs. Last night they'd had sex right where he was lying. Sherlock had been spread out under him. He swallowed hard thinking about it, then closed his eyes. Not working! Although it was a huge step for him to admit he wanted Sherlock—that he wanted it to happen again and again—it was making him more tense, not less. 

He couldn’t drop that line of thought. Was what he wanted that wrong? Was it wrong to want a man? Was it wrong to trust a man he hardly knew not only with his body, but with his mind?

Who was this Sherlock Holmes who came into his life? John felt as if he was thrown straight into the middle of an Agatha Christie novel. 

John jumped when the phone rang. Not many people called. It couldn’t be his mom— she only called when Ma Bell's rates were cheapest at 10 p.m. Sunday. That meant it could only be one person: Mycroft Holmes. John sat up and climbed off the bed. Two steps and he grabbed the phone. 

"Hello?" he said. "John Watson speaking."

"Ah! Finally, a live person instead of my little brother's insufferable recorded message."

Of course he didn't give his name or such pleasantries as introductions. John recalled how Sherlock told him that Mycroft assumed everyone knew his importance. 

"Yeah, he told me not to answer the phone, and since he is paying for it, I don't."

John sat down hard in the desk chair. The enticing scent of pastrami made his stomach growl. He pushed the bag of sandwiches away to the other side of the desk.

"Yet for some reason you decided to answer it today. What reason might that be Mr. Watson? Could it be your meeting with James Moriarty?"

"Yes. What? How did you know that?"

"The walls have eyes and ears, and my reach is far."

John was beginning to understand Sherlock's intense dislike for his brother. He was a nosey, arrogant bastard. 

"So, it's the whole knowledge is power thing you've got going on? So, you know I talked with Moriarty, but not what we said, and now you're calling because you can't stand not knowing what happened."

"While knowledge is power, there are other incentives. Do tell me what he said."

"Is that some sort of threat? I don't think I want to tell you."

"Awfully loyal for knowing my brother for such a short time. May I ask when I should expect the announcement?"

"A-announcement?" John stuttered. 

"Don't be coy. You know my brother's proclivities firsthand."

John bit his lip to keep himself from gasping. How the fuck did he know he'd had sex with Sherlock last night?

"I'm ending this call right now."

"Do not be hasty. There is much to gain, incentives to be had. I assure you that any information you give me will reap numerous benefits. That, and I have much to share with you regarding my brother dear. "

"I don't know if I want to hear any of it."

"It is in your best interest to listen. My brother was … is obsessed with James Moriarty. It is an unhealthy obsession. It is also a mutual one. While Sherlock’s vision may be clouded by this obsession, my brother does embody an unmatched talent when it comes to mastering the intricacies of the criminal mind. He is correct that Moriarty is a very dangerous man, but understand that my brother can be just as dangerous. He takes unparalleled risks. That he seems to have found a kindred spirit in you is most distressing to the family. Most reasonable people would have found themselves another roommate, but not you, Mr. Watson. Why is that?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"In any case, I know that you are in need of ready money. At least let me pay your expenses at the university. I would be willing to cover your tuition, room and board, and any, shall we say, other expenses, in exchange for information? Nothing personal, only where my brother's been, who he's seeing."

"Hold on! I'm not gonna spy on him! What kind of brother are you? No, don't answer that. Sherlock already told me." 

John was getting a headache. He hated this. God knows he could use the money. The fact that Mycroft knew he was strapped was proof enough that Sherlock was right about Mycroft: he lived to be a puppeteer and pull strings, manipulating all those around him, including his own little brother.

“A shame. I understand that you are having a difficult time meeting expenses. I would be more than happy to make it so that you would not have to participate in the work study."

"No. The answer is no. I am not a snitch."

"Then, let me ask you this at least. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in my brother's behavior?"

"I said I'm not a snitch."

"He _ has _ been using then."

"What? No! He hasn't been ...You know what? Even if he was, I’m not a narc either. I don't say this to many people, but I don't like you."

"I am sorry, Mr. Watson, if that is the way you feel. If you should change your mind, I am but a phone call away."

"And stop calling me Mr. Watson. I am not my father."

"Just as I suspected … daddy issues."

"I am ending this call." John slammed the receiver down so hard the bell inside rang out pitifully as if crying in pain.

John frowned down at it. He shouldn’t have abused the phone, but according to Sherlock, this Mycroft asshole had paid for the phone and answering machine. At this moment, he didn't give one fuck if he broke the damn thing. 

John's head popped back as the door opened. Sherlock flounced through. 

"You should have taken the money," Sherlock said. 

John wasn’t surprised that he'd been leaning against the door, listening in.

Sherlock stepped up to the desk, removing his leather jacket. "I would have split it with you. We could use some extra cash—especially if it's coming from my brother."

"Your brother is an ass."

Sherlock laughed as he pulled out his wallet and set five dollars on the desk. His long fingers opened the deli bag. Sherlock peeked inside. "True. And an ever expanding ass."

"Thanks, Sherlock, but that's more than it cost."

"Keep it. It's on Mycroft." His eyes grew wide. "And you ordered crisps. I love crisps. Much better than those Pringles." 

Opening the bag wider, Sherlock pulled out his potato chips and sandwich. Before he unwrapped it from the wax paper, he sniffed it skeptically. 

"And what did James have to say today to you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as he unwrapped the sandwich, then licked dressing off that had dripped onto his fingers. 

John sighed. 

"I knew you’d completely ignore my warning. Well?" Sherlock asked. He took a cautious bite, then another, groaning all the while.

"He said he told you two years ago that he'd been offered an associate professor position here," John answered.

John's stomach rumbled. He snatched the bag off the desk and took out his sandwich and unwrapped it. He needed a distraction from watching Sherlock lick his fingers. 

"I'm also sure he wasn't offered it, but that he could easily make it seem as if he had," Sherlock said. He licked his lips. 

He wished he would have tasted that mouth last night even if it meant becoming more intimate.

"This is very good … the offices on the campus have no security,” Sherlock said. “One can slip inside and procure or add any information to any file."

"And you know this how? Personal experience?" 

Sherlock answered again in that deep rumbling, know-it-all voice that John found hard to resist. "Of course, John! I am most resourceful."

John took a bite and groaned. "Jesus! This is better than good." 

Sherlock another bite and groaned along with him. "John, I believe you have discovered magic." He picked up the bag and inspected it. "This must be straight from a traditional Jewish deli!"

"Yeah, Molly said it was."

"I'm certain Mycroft was more than happy to fill you in on my past."

"More than willing. He said you had an addiction."

"Of course he did. And it is true that I did dabble. I found that cocaine focused my mind. After I began working with Lestrade, I quit. The inspector refused to let me work with him while I used. If you are concerned, I haven't used much since. Only a few times when my mind required it."

"You're telling me you've used it since you've been here with me?"

"No. John, I assure you, I have not. I'm not even certain where to buy it although I don't believe it would be that difficult. I did find it in that little town I stayed at before moving into the dorm."

"Well, don't. Do it, that is. I want you clear-headed, and I don't care if you think it makes you focus. It doesn't. You are already a mad genius. You don't need something that makes you think you're invincible."

"I assure you, John, that I don't believe that I'm a superhero."

"That's good." John took another bite. 

"It is. So-o good. And I do have what you call the munchies. I smoked some cannabis with Wiggins not long ago."

"How do you do that?"

"How do I do what, John?"

"How can I not tell? You never get those squinty, bloodshot eyes like most people or reek of pot. In fact, I never smell it on you."

"Easy. Close your eyes when you inhale! It's best to smoke in a well-ventilated environment. I keep a small mist bottle of sodium citrate diluted in water and spray it on myself from time to time. It was a trick Mycroft and I used to mask cigarette smoke from our mum. Here …” 

Sherlock pulled a small spray bottle dispenser from his pocket and tossed it to John.

"You and your brother snuck cigarettes? Together?" John laughed, turning the bottle in his hand. He set it down, then took another bite of pastrami. "Perfect."

"We all have our vices, even Mycroft."

"Vices. Yeah." John's eyes locked on to Sherlock's mouth as he polished off the last bite of sandwich.

"Yes, vices," Sherlock whispered back. John noticed Sherlock's eyes watching John's mouth as well. 

_ They'd never kissed. _

"Oh, to hell with it," Sherlock blurted out. He lurched forward at John. 

John wobbled backward in the chair, but Sherlock grabbed John's shirt and held him in place. 

"You don't mind?" Sherlock said. 

Just a breath was between their mouths.

"I don't mind." John gasped.

And he didn't, not at all. He wanted to know how Sherlock's mouth felt. 

Sherlock’s fist still had hold of John’s shirt. With a whisper of a touch, a hint of a breath, his lips brushed against Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't mind at all; John minded even less. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, effectively pulling him into his lap. 

Sherlock’s eyes glowed an unearthly green as they parted.

"God," Sherlock said, smacking his lips. "My pastrami tastes even better with yours." 

"Yeah, it does," John agreed. “I think I need another taste to be sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more notes on the allusions to other works and places in this chapter. 
> 
> First is John’s fascination with [The Kinsey Report](https://kinseyinstitute.org/about/index.php). There was more than one of these highly-controversial sociological reports on human sexuality by Alfred Kinsey. The two books were best sellers and were first published in 1945 (male sexuality) and 1953 (female). Subsequent studies and papers have been done crunching his statistics along with new data. The significance of the reports was that it dealt openly with taboo subjects such as masturbation and homosexuality. We can argue all day long about the validity of Kinsey’s data, but sociologically his books had more impact on American society because they opened a true dialogue about sex and sexuality for the first time. It literally heralded in the Age of Aquarius. 
> 
> My grandmother had stacks and stacks of true crime and detective magazines in the 60s and 70s. Most were awful and tasteless bits with outrageous covers (yeah, they were fun to read). Here’s a glimpse at some of them [“The Long Life and Quiet Death of the True Detective Magazine" by John Marr](https://gizmodo.com/the-long-life-and-quiet-death-of-true-detective-magazin-1725094095).  
I wanted to make a personal note on Zenterman’s Delicatessen. It was actually [Zingerman’s Deli](https://www.zingermansdeli.com), but it wasn’t on campus that early in the 1970s. Zingerman’s is a staple of campus life at U of M (I admit I only visited my friends there. I went to MSU…go green).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here go. Serious angst begins. 
> 
> Thank you to hotshoeagain for the excellent beta, and pointing out to me that a university student wouldn’t have a Stradivarius.

Sherlock set down his empty coffee mug on the desk.  _ What is wrong with me?  _ Sherlock wondered.  _ John only went down to check our mail box downstairs. It’s not as if Moriarty would dare try anything. _

_ No, not yet. He loves the game, to toy with people. Moriarty will bide his time, watch and wait until I least expect it,  _ Sherlock thought. _ First, he’ll try to get to him through John. What will Moriarty do?  _

Yesterday, Moriarty made himself known to John. From all that Sherlock had read, false memories were simple to instill in those who were gullible. John was not gullible. But there are many ways in which false memories may be planted in a subject. Memories can become contaminated. Moriarty began with small details and as these fake memories grow more complex and specific, they become progressively harder to implant. Those tied to emotion are the most difficult to suggest and childhood memories the easiest. But if one has a drug or some other means such as hypnosis ...

_ He’s trying to turn John against me.  _

Sherlock smiled. Whatever he tried, it hadn’t worked. Yes, yesterday had been eventful. John was becoming comfortable with himself as a gay man. They’d become more intimate. 

_ It was what I wanted, wasn’t it? _

Now he worried that he was putting John at risk. John broke Sherlock’s thought as he burst through the door, breathlessly waving two yellow slips of paper in his fist. 

“We have mail from home,” John said. He showed the slips to Sherlock. “Actually better than mail. Packages! They’re at the Community Center. Mine’s from my hometown and yours is from Kent. That where your parents live, right? Mine must be from mom.”

The way John hopped about all excited, talking about gifts from home, brought out a big grin from Sherlock.

“You know, a care package of cookies or something. I hope it’s her fudge. She makes the best. With your sweet tooth, I bet you’ll love it. If you want, I can stop at the Community Center and pick them up when I come back from class.”

Sherlock wasn’t expecting anything, but his mum did like to coddle him at times. 

“Thank you, John, but I can stop and pick mine up.” 

John picked up his books and began stuffing them in his bag to get to class. 

“You aren’t going to do any nosing around without me today,” John said suspiciously.

Sherlock sighed. “Very well. I won’t, unless something comes up while you’re in class.” Sherlock took a swig from his mug of coffee and wrinkled his nose. “Cold.”

“There’s more,” Sherlock added.

“Yeah, but class is in fifteen minutes. I should get going.” John swung his bag over his shoulder. “Unless, you’re anxious to pick it up, I can pick up the packages after class. It’s not far out of my way.” John hesitated as he stepped toward the door

“Thanks. For the coffee this morning, and for last night.” Sherlock winked and stepped closer. 

John shifted the bag to his other shoulder and stood at the door as if waiting for something. He closed his eyes.  _ He’s waiting for a kiss _ , Sherlock realized. He didn’t want to disappoint, but it seemed far too domestic. 

Sherlock leaned forward a bit more. John’s eyes remained closed. 

_ Oh, what the Hell _ , Sherlock thought. He bent in and brushed his mouth chastely against John’s. 

“Last night was … incredible. Everything, especially the …” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips and his eyes fluttered back open.

“Sex?” Sherlock finished for him, raising one eyebrow. 

“Yeah. Especially that.” John blushed a deep red to the tips of his ears. Sherlock decided the kissing was worth that alone. 

“I suspected you were enjoying it when you kept repeating my name,” Sherlock said. He made sure his voice reverberated when he said it.

“You mean, ‘Oh, God’?” John laughed. “Getting a bit of a big head?”

“In a manner of speaking.” 

John barked out another laugh, then turned and went out the door. Sherlock could hear him still giggling down the hallway.

——————-

The whole kiss at the door before leaving was silly. John shouldn’t be this giddy about a stupid kiss, but that was all he thought about through the lecture on cell membrane structure and function. Molly took one look at him and rolled her eyes. 

“You scored!” she announced to the auditorium.

Giggles and cheers erupted around them along with a few hearty “Way-to-gos.”

Even that embarrassment didn’t stifle his good mood. He still had a shit-eating grin as he half-sprinted to the Community Center. All he wanted to do was get back to the dorm and to Sherlock as fast as possible.

He hopped up to the Center’s desk. The head resident wore a “Hello, I’m ___” name tag with Mark Sanders printed neatly on the line. 

“How may I help you?” Mark asked. 

“I need to pick these up,” John said. He slapped the yellow notification slips on the counter.

“Ah, yes,” Mark said. He spun around and disappeared into the backroom while John impatiently waited, bobbing up and down on his toes.

“Here’s the package for Sherlock Holmes,” said the head resident at the Community Center. He was tall, lean, and was wearing old sweats. Definitely a runner, thought John, cross country most likely.

The head resident set the package with “Fragile” stamped in red letters on the counter. 

“I know it looks bulky, but it’s pretty light,” the resident apologized.

“What about mine?” John asked.

Mark ducked down behind the counter and rummaged around. A second later he popped back up and set a large manilla envelope face down on the counter. “Here you are,” he said. 

John bit back disappointment as he stared at the envelope. No creamy fudge with walnuts. No buttery sugar cookies or oatmeal raisin. Not even chocolate no-bake cookies. Instead, some sort of documents. He wondered what his mom thought was so important that she’d had to send special to him. 

“Thanks,” John said. He stuffed the envelope in his backpack, turning his interest to Sherlock’s package. He lifted it. No, Mark was right, not heavy at all, just an awkward oblong box. John had a feeling he knew what was inside it. Just a hunch, but considering the size, weight, and that it was fragile, he knew at least Sherlock would be pleased at what he got.

He headed straight back. He had planned to make a quick stop at the library to return some books, but he wanted to get back to the dorm and give Sherlock this parcel. 

People turned and stared at him again—not because he had sex with a man, or because he had tooth paste on his face. He was smiling like a loon, practically skipping with a package under his arm. God. Last night was perfect. Sherlock was perfect. The way he kissed. He’d never been kissed like that. And the way he’d taken John and … what a blow job! He couldn’t think at all afterward. The most surprising of it all was that he actually did the same for Sherlock, and he’d loved every second. The way Sherlock moaned. That baritone voice. Jesus. The whole experience changed him. He said thank you to John. The awkward and stilted way he said it, John doubted Sherlock ever said it to many people. He could read John, understand what he was thinking. Not like some Magic Eight Ball, but real answers. Things about his parents, his past. And in bed, he could intuit what John needed before he even knew he wanted it himself. 

What was it about this Sherlock Holmes that sent him spinning around like a top? 

Even as he rushed to his dorm, he handled the package with care. He held his breath as the elevator stopped at their floor, anticipating Sherlock’s reaction. 

The door flew open before he could knock. Sherlock took one look at the package, and he hooted.

“I want to hear you play it,” John said. He handed over the package into Sherlock’s eager arms.

Sherlock sat on John’s bed and tore open the box. Wood shavings spilled out on the floor as he pulled the case out the box.

“My, I missed you!” Sherlock cheered. He opened the violin case and removed it with the same care a mother would pick up her infant from its cradle.

“It’s beautiful,” John said. “Is that a—Jesus. I carried a Stradivirius across campus like it was a box of melons?” 

“John, it’s not my Stradivirius. It is a Stainer. It is valuable to me, my violin I learned upon.”

“It looks expensive.”

“Most good violins are. And you hardly carried it like melons.” Sherlock nestled it in his arms before he tucked it under his chin and plucked it gently with his fingers. 

“Could you hand me one of my bows from the case?”

“Does it matter which one?” 

“No. And the rosin. Thanks.” 

Afterward, John took a seat on the edge of his bed. John crossed his legs, and Sherlock gave him a wicked grin. Yeah, he was getting hard just watching Sherlock’s long, nimble fingers adjust the tension on his bow and slide the rosin cake across the bow hairs from tip to end again and again. 

John licked his lips as Sherlock tucked his violin under his chin and began to tune it. John was mesmerized as Sherlock’s fingers danced between the peg and fine tuner. This shouldn’t be turning him on, but damn, it was hot.

“You don’t mind if I play?” he asked as he finished. 

“Of course I don’t mind. I want to hear you.”  _ God, do I _ , John thought. 

Sherlock drew his bow and began to play. While Sherlock’s tuning was erotic, this was romantic. John felt himself sighing with pleasure and at peace. Although he didn’t know the name, John recognized the melody immediately. He listened quietly. 

When Sherlock finished, John felt a pang of disappointment that it was over.

“That’s lovely. What is it called?”

“Chopin’s lullaby,  _ Berceuse _ ,” Sherlock said. 

“Please, keep playing.”

“What about your package?” Sherlock nodded. 

“I’d forgotten,” John said. “Probably because it’s not fudge. If it’s not my mom’s baked goods, I’m not that interested.” He got up off the bed and pulled the bag over to him with his foot, then opened it up and reached in as he plunked back onto the bed. He pulled out the envelope. 

“I wish it was at least some of her peanut butter cookies. Jeez, I’d walk across broken glass for some of those. Probably some dumb papers Mom thinks I need.” John looked at it again. “That odd. It isn’t her handwriting, but it’s our home address.”

“John, _ wait  _ …”

He unclasped prongs and slipped them out of the eyelet. Someone had sealed the flap down too. He tore it open by slipping his finger into the end and peeked in. A photo. His brows knitted together. What had she sent? But the second he pulled it out, his heart raced. How could it be! All the joy of the last days collapsed like the matchstick houses he used to build as a kid. Sherlock’s lullaby, the intimate intensity of last night, none of it mattered compared to this eight-by-ten photo. 

“John? What is it? What’s wrong?”

John bolted off the bed as he crammed the photo back in the envelope. He couldn’t disguise the shock on his face. Did Sherlock see? 

“John?” 

John didn’t even know it was possible to take a photo like this at night. He paced around the room, trying to wrap his head around that someone knew his secret and sent his this.

The photo was taken at night with some sort of fancy camera—dark and grainy but plain to see what was happening in the picture. Two men in a wooded area at night: the first had only his white ass in the air visible, the second man behind his head was looking up into the night sky, his mouth open in the throes of lust, his jeans slung low, his cock pointing at its target and poised to enter the other man’s ass. No, his face wasn’t recognizable, but John knew the second man was him.

Sherlock tried to pry the envelope from John’s hands, but John violently yanked it away.

“John, please. What is it?” 

Sherlock had told John to wait. His voice had sounded alarmed. He must have had an idea something was wrong.  _ Did he know? How does he always know? _

He felt queasy and dizzy. _ God, please don’t let me pass out,  _ John thought. 

He stepped back shakily to the bed. He hadn’t realized how much he was sweating, how violently he had reacted. He dropped down heavily onto the bed. He closed his eyes and wished that night away, wished the envelope would vanish from his hands _ . How could someone have taken that picture?  _ he thought.  _ How did someone know who he was? Who saw him at the rest area? Why would they even do this? _

It wasn’t like he had money that he could be blackmailed for. 

John barely noticed as Sherlock eased down beside him on the bed—not until Sherlock gently tried loosen his grip from the envelope did he notice him there. 

_ Why shouldn’t he know? _ John thought. _ He’s probably already deduced it.  _

He let go. Sherlock opened it and looked inside. 

“Moriarty?” John whispered to himself.

How was this possible? 

But it was the only name that kept resurfacing in John’s mind.

_ But how? Could it be Moriarty?  _ John thought. _ I didn’t know Sherlock then. He didn’t know me.  _ John didn’t understand. _ How could he have known then that Sherlock would be my roommate? _

“Moriarty is responsible for this,” Sherlock confirmed. “I knew when I saw the handwriting on the envelope.” Sherlock swallowed. “It’s the same handwriting on the gifts I received from him.”

“But how? Why would he follow me? Take these photos? I didn’t know you.”

“John, I’m going to tell you something—something you are not going to like. You may never wish to speak to me again afterward, but you must know.”

“Sherlock, what is it? You’re scaring me.”

“He wasn’t taking photos of you. At least you weren’t the intended subject.”

“Who was?” 

“John, I am sorry.”

“What are you saying? What are you trying to tell me?”

“The other man in the photo is me.”

——————————--

Sherlock expected John to hit him. Instead, he stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

“You’re kidding,” he said. 

“This was a message to you, but it was more of a message to me,” Sherlock explained. 

Sherlock watched John’s face pinch together, his jaws clench. The trembling continued, but instead of shock, it was now anger.

Sherlock heart had sunk the moment he saw the handwriting. All manner of wild and horrifying thoughts raced through his mind as to what Moriarty would send John: something deadly like air-borne poison released upon opening, or a letter graphically depicting how he’d dismember John, or worse, someone he loved. What he hadn’t expected were photos. 

But when Sherlock caught a glimpse of a photo in John’s hand, Sherlock thought Moriarty had sent a photo to John to prove to him that Sherlock was unworthy of his trust: some photo of him snorting coke in a grimy backroom or shooting up in some filthy alley. 

None of these compared to what the envelope really held. He had wondered about that night. Sherlock had known when he found out John was his roommate, it was no coincidence. It was James, his machinations. But photos? 

John jolted up off the bed where he’d been sitting next to Sherlock and spun around, facing him. Rage, it poured off of John like a furnace. It felt as if the temperature in the room had risen ten degrees from John’s fiery glare. 

“Why?” John shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t. I was as surprised as you were when I found out you were my roommate.”

“But how did you even know who I was? It was too dark to see. Oh, that’s right … you’re fucking Sherlock Holmes.”

“From before. I was there when you wrote the note on the bathroom stall.”

John stumbled back as if he’d been physically slapped. “You knew who I was that night,” he hissed. “You bastard. You knew, you’ve known all along and said nothing.”

“I could have kept the secret and never told you,” Sherlock said. He knew it was a weak point. 

“Well, congratu-fucking-lation. Instead, I get what? A gift in the mail. Surprise!” John yelled, pointing at the envelope on the bed. “What was all this between us? Some goddamned game? Oh, let’s play ‘How much will it take to lure the gay boy out of the closet’? I hope you had fun.”

“John, it’s not like that at all. I respect you.”

“Respect me? Holy fucking hell. You don’t know what respect is.”

“I know I’m not the best with people. I generally detest their company, but you are not like anyone else. You, John, are an ever-changing conductor of light, a person I hold in utmost esteem.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have never known anyone for whom I feel this much fascination.”

“Do you know how creepy that last part sounds?”

Sherlock stood up as John started for the door. 

“Don’t go.”

Sherlock made the mistake of reaching for John’s arm. John yanked his arm from his grasp. 

“No … just no! Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again.” He stepped back. “If you do, I might do something we’ll both be sorry for.”

Sherlock gasped as he felt a darkness encapsulate him, worse than a fix gone bad or an agonizing withdrawal.

“I don’t believe you. Moriarty was right. It was you all along. You made sure I was your roommate. I was an idiot not to see. You stalked me.”

John stomped toward the door and jerked it open.

“John, no. This is exactly what Moriarty wanted to happen.”

“You know, right now, I think I’d be safer with him,” John said. He disappeared out the door, slamming it behind him with a mental “Fuck you.”

In the aftermath, Sherlock trembled, mentally flogging himself. He had known that Moriatry had hundreds of photos of Sherlock—he’d seen some of them himself. It was one of the reasons Sherlock left him. James had an entire room wallpapered with images of Sherlock bathing, eating, sleeping. 

Sherlock sat back down on the bed and picked up the envelope.

Sherlock was never sure who was tailing him, James or one of his brother’s minions. He had suspected James had had Sherlock followed when he came to Michigan. He knew his brother had. 

Sherlock had known, but he thought he was smarter. He thought he knew. He never suspected someone had followed him to the rest area. He had no idea that someone was spying on him that night. And he’d been so careful. 

How had he not seen or heard? Even from the beginning, he was distracted by John Watson. When John was near, his focus centered on John. 

He pulled out the photo from the envelope. The perspective was from above. Someone had waited in a tree to take this with some sort of infrared lens filter. To do that someone else had to have followed Sherlock that first day into the restroom. Seen John go in. Seen the writing on the bathroom stall wall. Someone had come back that night, expecting Sherlock to meet this person and get a compromising photo. Except, they’d sent the photo to John. 

In all likelihood, photos were developed from that very same night that had Sherlock and John’s face in them, yet the photo Moriarty chose was ambiguous. Nothing in the photo gave any indication of identity or place. John knew. Sherlock knew. They knew, and so did Moriarty and whoever took the photo. 

Identity didn’t matter: it was the secret. 

James wanted Sherlock to squirm. He knew Sherlock would not have told John who he was. He knew he would keep that to himself. James put them in a room together to see what transpired. The only coincidence was that they were both going to the same university. Or maybe James even arranged that. Sherlock wondered when John was accepted at U of M. 

This photo was proof that James had someone working for him who was as smart and as clever as James. It could have been a rifle sight aimed at him as easily as a camera’s. 

Who ever took that photo was a professional, one of Moriarty’s finest.

John’s reaction was exactly what James had wanted.

Sherlock supposed he should thank James for some of this—meeting John, having this time together—but not this envelope. He shoved the photo back inside.

He wondered when or if John would come back. He wondered if he would move out of this room. James wanted John to turn against Sherlock. It worked, and it had worked brilliantly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an example of a character in the story taking ahold of the author and leading them down a different path than intended. From the story’s conception (which was long ago and far, far away), I’d always intended for the reveal to John to be the turning point of the story. I’d even thought of ways that John might uncover it then, confront Sherlock. Even as John carried the envelope back, I intended for Sherlock to keep his mouth shut about it. Imagine my surprise, when Sherlock gets a mind of his own and blurts out at the end of this chapter, “The other man in the photo is me." I almost deleted it, then I realized that this was the best possible plot turn for the story and gave me an entirely new avenue to explore.
> 
> Of course Sherlock, make me reimagine the plot for the rest of the story! Next chapter may take a bit longer...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hang on to your seats, good buddies, because here comes a surprise! You knew one was coming. A face off between Sherlock and Moriarty, but the other? Maybe not. For those of you reading as I post, I waited to add the name in the tags to avoid spoilers for this one. 
> 
> Both John and Sherlock’s POV in this chapter with plenty of introspection and mutual pining. 
> 
> Thank you, hotshoeagain for the beta and pointers. 
> 
> I do have an end note on False Memories. I plan to add more on this subject to chapter endings as the story continues.

Was everything he believed about Sherlock a lie? He had to admit, it was possible. 

He cursed to himself as he zipped his jacket up to his chin. October was an unpredictable bitch. Rain spat down on him and the cold winds whipped and taunted him. Only a couple of hours ago, the sun was warming his cheeks, he was ridiculously happy and thought he might be in love. Now he had no umbrella, no hat, and a missing heart.

No way he’d go back to get something warmer. He needed to be away from Sherlock. John’s first reaction had been to hit him in the face. He could go to the library, or early to work study. He wasn’t scheduled to work until two o’clock, but East Hall was closer. 

He shoved his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. He wasn’t certain if they were shaking from cold or from what Sherlock just revealed.

Maybe his roommate was the obsessed madman that Moriarty told John about. Sherlock’s brother seemed to think the same. Was it Moriarty’s plan to put them in the same room together, not Sherlock’s design? 

If it was Moriarty, John could understand Sherlock’s reaction when they first met, and why Sherlock wasn’t forthcoming. It’s not like you shake hands with your new roommate, then blurt out: “Hey, you know that anonymous fuck at Rest Area 818? Surprise! It’s me.” 

Not a great first impression, but since when did Sherlock care about those? 

_ And being gay? Am I really? I like women. _

But what if Sherlock arranged it and put them together as roommates? Some grand experiment. He claimed that it wasn’t, but it’s Sherlock. How could Sherlock resist trying to turn his roommate’s proclivities to men? That would mean that every tiny brush of Sherlock’s hand and every touch of his knee was part of some game Sherlock was playing. Thinking back, every subtle and not-so subtle come-on, told John it was possible. Sherlock’s obvious innuendos came to mind, from slow motion licking of his fingers to his suggestive, rumbling words: “What would you do? Spank me?” 

He may not have arranged the housing, but he took advantage of the situation. Or maybe he had arranged it all.

It was possible. Sherlock could break into any place on campus. He told John it was easy. All Sherlock had to do was break into the residence hall, pull the files, and change the assignment.

One other point that bothered John before this: even if freshman weren’t allowed to live off-campus, John knew that Sherlock’s brother Mycroft could have arranged for Sherlock to be put in private housing. He had the means and the money. Why hadn’t he done this?

Like his violin, had Sherlock tuned him, drawn his bow, then played him like a virtuoso? John had never played anyone. He had seen girls do it to his friends and his friends do it to girls. The trick, he was told, was reverse psychology: pretend you’re not interested in the other person, then the other person will suddenly be interested in you. 

_ Fuck. No strings? Only sex _? 

But it wasn’t only sex. Sharing sandwiches, talking until dawn, playing music, and that kiss. John’s chest physically ached thinking about it. 

Sherlock had ample opportunities to come clean to John. What type of fucked-up relationship did he have with James Moriarty that made Sherlock think that this was the way a relationship functioned? Lie about how they really met? Was James telling the truth? No. Couldn’t be. The man took pictures of them! That was truly fucked up.

Knowing this, he’d have to quit his work study _ and _ get a new roommate. He liked the work study, but he couldn’t work with Moriarty after this. As for moving, housing was hard to come by, especially that he could afford. He wondered how difficult it would be to find someone who needed a roommate? He supposed he could stop at Residential Housing and ask. Maybe he’d stop there after work study if he didn’t have to work late. 

Or Sherlock could be the one to move out instead of him. Get a place off campus. Live with Moriarty. Why else did Sherlock warn John away from him? Because Moriarty knew what Sherlock was. They were two of a kind. The way Sherlock couldn’t let go when talking about him--Sherlock might as well move in with him.

_ No. _

_ I am so fucked! _ John thought. _ I’m beyond upset that Sherlock is more obsessed with Moriarty than with me! _

And what ate at John most was Sherlock’s obsession with Moriarty. _ Not far now, almost to East Hall and I can get out of this fucking rain _, John thought.

Sherlock could deny it all he wanted, but John knew it was true. 

A part of him understood Sherlock’s need to reach out like he did. It’s easier to hide who and what you are than to admit the truth. Sherlock appeared to be comfortable with his sexuality, but he was hardly comfortable with himself. His passions, his intellect, his need for companionship, Sherlock revealed that part of himself to Moriarty. And that was exactly what hurt John most—he’d finally trusted enough to open up to Sherlock in the same way, only to find his trust was misguided. 

He shivered. His hair was plastered to his head, and the bitter cold rain that ran down his face mixed with warm tears. John brushed them both away. 

Whether playing John or not, Sherlock had lied to him about something very important.

Finally, he was to East Hall. He walked up the steps and in the doors. He shook his head like a rain-soaked dog, and water sprayed out around him. It was good to get inside where it was warm.

John sniffed. Despite it all, he was still attracted to Sherlock. The swanky bastard had given John the most erotic dreams of his entire life, for Chrissake. Sure, Sherlock had pursued him, but it wasn’t as if Sherlock was some letcher preying on him. 

As he entered the lobby, he was thankful that Stephanie wasn’t working. She was cute, but not his type. Instead, someone else was there—minimal make-up, short blonde hair, no-nonsense blue eyes and a pert mouth. John introduced himself, and her eyes lit up as she immediately held out her hand. His hands were cold, but it didn’t put her off in the least. He immediately felt a tingle of attraction in the heat of her touch. 

“My name’s Mary Morstan. And you’re John Watson. I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “You look chilled to the bone.”

“Yeah, it’s typical Michigan weather. If you don’t like it, wait five minutes.”

She giggled. “I’m not from around here, but the weather is just as changeable where I come from.”

“That so?” John smiled. He might as well be polite. “Where’s that?”

“Chicago.” She slid her hands across the counter. “I was talking to Professor Doyle only yesterday about you. We’re supposed to work together on the induced-stress lab. I’d hoped we could get started today on the initial research the professor wanted us to look over, but I have to fill in for Stephanie and man this boring desk. She came down with something.” She rolled her eyes.

“Hope nothing serious.”

“No, something like the stomach flu.” John giggled as he watched as she exaggeratedly pretended she was swirling a glass filled with alcohol. She tipped it up to her lips and pretended to guzzle it down. 

“Hangover?” John laughed.

“Probably.” She leaned across the desk and brushed her finger against his jacket. “You are drenched. Take off that jacket, and I’ll hang it up back here.”

John slipped his coat off his shoulders. Thank god his mom insisted on a waterproof lining—at least his shirt was dry. 

She took his coat, and hung it up on a hook next to her own blue jean jacket. 

“Associate professor Moriarty gave me these for us to review,” she pointed to the folders stacked on the desk in front of her. “I was just reading them. You know what? I have an idea … instead of that cramped office, you could camp out here, and we could go over them together? It gets boring at the desk. Not much for me to do except twiddle my thumbs.”

“Sounds good.”

“I can get us some coffee first to warm you up.”

“That would be great,” John said.

“Come back here and pull a chair. It won’t take me long. The breakroom is just down the hall. How do you like it?” she asked.

“Black.”

“Sure thing. I can’t guarantee how long it’s been sitting. If it’s like syrup, I’ll make a new pot.” She patted the folders before giving him a wink. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back with a hot cup of joe!”

She spun around with a spring in her step. John watched her hips sway as she walked down the hallway. Nice legs, but there was something intangible about her that also intrigued him. 

He picked up a folder and began to read. So often university studies relied on the student population for their samples, which puts the wider application of such research into question. The test subjects had already been selected, and pains had been taken to make sure that the cross-sections were as unbiased as possible. It wasn’t a random sampling, but as stratified as possible. 

A large range of variables were listed. John eyed the extensive list. Subjects were divided into the usual by age, socio, and economic groups, but also included other interesting inclusions, such as how many hours spent watching television per day and how many times per week they dined out. 

John thumbed through the folders. The folder he was looking for was at the bottom. The experiment would be a three-part procedure with three groups. First, all of the participants will be presented with the stimuli: photos of a man in a t-shirt and jeans, leaning down and looking into a car with his fist clenched. The first would be the control group where no misinformation would be suggested. The remaining two groups would be given misinformation. John noted that this would be where either Mary or John would step in: they would tell the subjects through suggestive questions or narrative that the man was holding a crowbar. The final group would additionally be told the misleading information that the man was breaking into the vehicle. 

John rubbed his chin. It was an interesting test, and John didn’t see any way in which Moriarty could turn it into some devious plot at mind control. It was almost laughable. He turned to the next page of notes.

John read that it was up to those administering to follow the script given them on how the misleading information was to be presented. That meant John would be the one administering this along with the woman he’d just met, Mary.

The script still had not been approved by Professor Doyle, and was not in the files. 

John read that in the final stage, every subject would take the same memory test where they will answer questions related to what they remember about the presented stimuli, specifically, whether or not the man was holding a crowbar. The questions were still pending approval by Doyle. 

John looked up at the clock. It had been over fifteen minutes since Mary went to get the coffee. It was taking her longer than he expected. Must be she had to make another pot. Despite how ground-breaking this study they’d be working on was, John couldn’t feel too excited about it. His mind kept returning to Sherlock, and also to the fact that he’d come here to quit. 

The sound of sneakers on the tile floor brought John’s head up. Mary returned holding two mugs in her hands. Her face brightened when she noticed that she’d caught John’s eyes. 

She skillfully maneuvered around the counter without spilling a drop from either cup.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” she said, setting John’s coffee next to his hand resting near the folders.

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Are you alright? I don’t know you well, but you do seem a bit on edge.”

“I’m afraid I had a disagreement with my roommate.”

“Yeah, that happens. I had one with mine just yesterday.” She looked at John. “But I think it’s more serious than a little argument.”

John sighed. “You’re right. He lied to me about something serious. I don’t think I can trust him. I’ll probably have to find another roommate.”

John sipped his coffee. She had made a fresh pot. Not bad. Nice and hot. 

She slid her chair closer to John and sat down.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think sometimes it’s best to step back and reassess. It’s really difficult to find housing this time in the semester. You might have to tough it out at least until semester change. You can always choose to ignore him.”

“You don’t know Sherlock. He’s not easy to ignore.” John took another sip from his mug. 

“Sherlock. That’s an unusual name.”

“Yeah, well, he’s unusual; the name fits him.”

Mary laughed. Some people chirped, some giggled, others warbled when they laughed. Mary bubbled. 

“Before we get started here,” John said, “I really should talk to either Sebastian Moran or James Moriarty.”

“I’m sorry, neither of them are coming in today—meetings of some sort to attend. Anything you’d like me to pass on?”

John looked at her closely. “No, it can wait.”

“If you’re sure? I wouldn’t mind. I hope it doesn’t have to do with James. He mentioned something about knowing your roommate.”

“He did. What did he say?”

“Not much. Just that he was a handful, and that they’d had a disagreement.” 

John nodded. He watched her hand as she swirled her coffee around in her cup. She drank hers with cream.

“James also told me you were pre-med; so am I.”

“Really?” John looked at her closely. He should have guessed it. “Do you know James well?”

“Not well enough to call him James!” And another bubbling burst of laughter erupted from her. John thought it was sort of cute.

“From what I hear, he’s an enigma in the department. His degree isn’t in behavioral psychology, but he wrote a brilliant paper on false memory that caught Professor Doyle’s interest.”

John studied Mary closer, remembering Sherlock’s words to observe. She was dressed differently than most students here. Sure, she had on jeans and a sweater, but the jeans were neat, and looked new and her sweater newer. Even her tennis shoes were unscuffed except for a small grass stain on the side; they looked like she just bought them. Her nails were short, with neutral beige polish chipped in the center of some of the nails. Where she held the mug, she had a small callus on her thumb. Looking at her again, he realized she was possibly older than what she first appeared—maybe in her late twenties, possibly early thirties.

“So, we’re both just slumming in the psych department,” she said, and nudged him playfully in the side. 

“Yeah, guess we are. I really don’t see it that way.”

“I don’t either. Just joking. I think I might go down the long and winding road of becoming a psychiatrist. I’m a non-traditional student anyway.”

He was right— she was a bit older.

“Nothing like spending your entire youth in college,” John added.

“Yeah, I know. I already wasted too many years by changing degrees.”

They spent the next couple of hours going through the files and drinking too much coffee. John found himself actually laughing and almost forgetting Sherlock.

Almost. 

“It’s getting dark.” John said. He massaged the back of his neck. “I guess you should have clocked out an hour ago.”

“Yes, but we were on a roll.”

They both stood and Mary knelt down to put the files under the desk in a tray.

“I can walk you home.”

“A gentleman!” she said, standing. “It’s not necessary. I know Karate. I have a brown belt. But I would like the company.”

“Good. I’ll walk you then.”

She got her jean jacket, and John unhooked his. Mary reached out and touched one of the sleeves.

“Yours is still damp— at least on the outside.”

“That’s all that matters,” John said. It was cold, but it was dry on the inside. 

They walked to the door. “At least it’s not raining,” John said.

They walked side-by-side in companionable silence. The storm had finished and the clouds gone from the night sky. In its place a half moon looked down on them as they walked around puddles on the sidewalks. By the time they’d reached the dorm, John had plenty of time to think about what he was going to say to Sherlock. Except he still wasn’t sure what it would be.

“You’re thinking so loud, I can practically hear you. Worried about your roommate, Sherlock?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact.” Truth was, his mind had hardly stopped thinking about him since they’d met.

“Here’s my dorm. I’m good here.” She stopped and reached into her purse and pulled out a small note pad and pen. “Want some advice?” she asked. She tapped the pen on the pad. 

“At this point, I think I need it.” 

She turned around and faced John. She was about his height in her sneakers, and her blue eyes flickered in the moonlight.

“I know it’s difficult to live in such close quarters with someone you don’t trust, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil. I don’t know what happened between you, but I’d be willing to bet it does have something to do with assistant professor Moriarty. He didn’t have to tell me, but I know that they had some sort of bad falling out.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

She nodded. “I think your roommate hurt you in some way. The professor implied that it had to do with trust. My guess is that you thought he was your friend and he took advantage of your friendship. That’s hard to forgive.”

John sighed. “You’re right.”

“Here’s my number in my dorm.” 

She scribbled it down and ripped it off and handed it to him. Must be she was studying to be a doctor. Her handwriting sucked. 

“Give me a call,” she said. “Maybe we could meet up—” she winked. “Just in case you need an excuse to get away from your roommate.”

John took her number. “Thanks. I will.” He turned around and began walking away, then stopped and did an about-face. “Um, Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Would you like to go to a movie or something tomorrow night?”

“I’d love to, John.”

“Great. I’ll call you, then”

Any other time and he’d be excited about a date with an attractive, intelligent woman like Mary. Instead, he wondered if Sherlock would be there when he returned. He said goodnight and thrust his hands in his pockets and mulled over what to say to Sherlock.

———————-

Sherlock waited three hours for John to return. When he didn’t, he decided he couldn’t pace the floor any longer. Smoking that joint hadn’t helped in the least, and his mind palace had completely refused to let him open its doors.

The only thing that helped during times like this was to dig into a good murder or proper experiment. Since murder was out—Ann Arbor police had thrown him out of the station months ago— he headed to the chemistry building. 

Once there, he immediately set up the equipment, then retrieved the samples to prepare the slides. He needed to check the rate of decomposition’s progress using battery acid as a solvent on various samples (one specimen was human flesh from the back of a cadaver’s hand, but Sherlock would never share that tidbit of information with anyone in the lab). 

He finished and had just slipped the slide in and adjusted the coarse focus when the door hinges groaned. Sherlock didn’t even have to look up from the microscope to know who entered. 

“That you were going to the same university was a gift,” James said. His shoes echoed on the tile as he stepped closer. “The rest was simple.”

Sherlock adjusted the fine focus on the microscope. He jotted down some notes, then looked into the eyepiece again, refusing to give James the satisfaction of his full attention. He heard James dragging a stool next to him. He sat down.

“Most people just knock, but you’re not most people,” Sherlock said, still not taking his eyes off the slide. “I could ask you what you hope to accomplish, but we both know the answer. It won’t work.”

“Be honest, aren’t you the tiniest bit pleased.”

“What? That you barged in and disrupted my experiment?” He pulled back, but still refused to look at James.

“You’re always in the middle of some experiment. Waiting for you to come to your senses is so tedious.” He tapped his shoes on the floor. “You’ve become boring with your little playmate. He is rather cute. Such lovely blond locks and puppy dog eyes, but I bet he bites.”

Sherlock threw his shoulder back and looked James in the face, but he still refused to give James the pleasure of any reaction.

“Why not just give in and come and play with me?” James asked. He cracked his gum, then bumped Sherlock’s shoulder to his. 

“I’ll give you the damned bomb if you leave and never come back,” Sherlock said. He waved James off with the back of his hand. He knew it would never work, but it was the thought that counts.

“You know I can’t do that! I need someone to play the game with me. Every boy does need some sort of toy. If you don’t want to, I can find another.” James pressed his finger to his lips. “Let me see, who shall it be? I spy with my little eye something compact.”

“Leave him alone. I swear, James, if you touch him ...” 

“My, my. I love the passion and fire! An honest reaction! But I don’t think that will work. You see my mind is set on a new plaything.”

“I will kill you.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide as James clapped his hands and bounced with sheer joy at the prospect of his possible demise. 

“Oh, Sherlock, every person has a soft spot— that little pressure point that can be poked and prodded. It’s delightfully entertaining to watch people writhe and squirm. Please continue.”

“You’ve done the damage. You wanted to see the aftermath. He left. Now leave. Stay away from John.”

“_ John, John, John _ .” Moriarty spoke as if he were addressing a room filled with people. “You want _ him _ when you can have me? Oh, how soon they forget.” He threw the back of his hand over his brow dramatically.

“There was nothing to remember.”

“Oh, but there was … how you moaned and begged. Remember, what did you call me. Mr. Sex? I don’t understand how you’ve stooped so low, but I suppose it was hard to find a replacement that would even come close.”

“You give yourself too much credit.”

“No, I don’t think so. I do see some of the appeal, but he’s so ordinary. Even his name. _ John _.”

“He’s not ordinary.”

“Oh, did I jab another soft spot?!” he giggled. “I need some of that passion. Maybe I should get myself a live-in.”

“You already do. Name of Sebastian, and although he has an unusual name, he must be pretty forgettable since you don’t acknowledge he exists.”

James clapped again. “Oh, it gets better yet! You’re jealous! I do so love that you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You are, and so quick to deny it.” He looked down at his watch. “I must run. I have another appointment.”

He began to leave. Stopped. He continued to face the door as he spoke. “Oh, one more tiny thing? You know that heart? The one you think you don’t have? It’s there, and I’m going to burn it out of you.”

Sherlock didn’t watch him leave, but he did make sure that he had left. No use following him. Sherlock knew exactly where he was going. Home to Seb. 

—————-

Sherlock was home and John wasn’t. Not that he expected John to come back. Sherlock knew he had to at some point. He didn’t have anywhere to stay on campus.

Sherlock made John Cambell’s tomato soup. He turned the electric coil burner to heat the soup in a small, old aluminum pot that John had brought from home.

They still had some of those crackers John liked. Sherlock actually thought they weren’t bad. John had shared them with Sherlock one of their first evenings together. Ritz, they were called. 

It was almost nine-thirty, and John still wasn’t back. The soup was cold, but Sherlock could warm it up fast. 

Sherlock’s head immediately shot up when he recognized the familiar footsteps in the hallway. The steps were hesitant and stopped just outside the door what. There he stood in the door, mouth open and nothing coming out.

“Are you going to just stand there looking like a fish or come inside?” 

John frowned and did an about-face, and was about to forward march back out the door. 

“I made soup!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Tomato. With crackers.”

John halted. “Really? You made me something?”

“Yes. I’m reheating it. It will be ready momentarily.”

John inched his way across the room to the bed. He slung off his coat and tossed it at the bottom. Sherlock was tempted to pick it up for him, but that might be too much.

Sherlock knew to do this right he had to be completely honest with John. There was no half way. 

“You said you didn’t know we were going to be roommates,” John finally said.

“That’s right. But I wasn’t certain it was you,” Sherlock said. He stepped over to the dresser where the soup was warming. “The first few days, I wondered. It was this that made me certain.” Instead of checking the soup, Sherlock opened his underwear drawer and reached into the bottom. “Here, these belong to you.”

From Sherlock’s fingers dangled John’s grandfather’s dog tags. He held them out as he walked over to John. “I picked them up that night off the ground after you’d left.”

John stood and opened his hand. After Sherlock dropped them into John’s palm, his fingers folded and clenched tightly around the dog tags. Sherlock expected John to be angry. Instead, he bowed his head and began to quietly sob.

“I thought I’d lost them that night,” he murmured.

Sherlock had the irresistible urge to hug him. He knew it was entirely possible that John might lash back, but he hugged him anyway.

Sherlock blew out a sigh of relief when John let him. 

“I think the soup is burning,” John said.

Sherlock jerked away and over to the burner. He turned the knob to off, then blindly grabbed the handle. White-hot pain shot through his hand.

“Hot!” he yelped. He still managed not to drop the pot despite the throbbing pain. “I think the bottom is only scorched. It should still be edible.”

“Forget the soup. Let’s look at that hand.”

John had wiped away his own tears and was in full doctor mode. It made Sherlock forget the burning flesh that was once the palm of his hand. 

He held Sherlock’s hand in his, then opened it gently. Sherlock wished he could enjoy the moment more, but his hand felt like he’d just set it on fire.

“Your poor hand. We need to run cold water on this. Let’s walk you to the bathroom.”

With his own hand around Sherlock’s wrist, John guided him down the hallway, and Sherlock willingly let him. Sherlock felt as if he was in a dream—an inferno of pleasure. 

John pushed open the bathroom door and walked Sherlock over to the sink. He turned on the tap and ran the cool water over Sherlock’s palm. He removed it for a moment and inspected the burn, then returned it under the faucet. 

Grateful moans of deliverance escaped him. “You are a genius, John. It no longer feels as if I was boiling my hand in hot oil!”

_ God, _ Sherlock thought. _ He’s flashing that lopsided grin at me. I still may expire from the heat _. 

John continued to hold his hand under the cool for three minutes before taking it out and checking it again. “Doesn’t look like it’s going to blister,” John observed, returning his under the cool water. “A couple of more minutes. It will hurt like a bitch for a bit, and it might be a few days before you’ll be playing that violin again, but it’s only a first degree burn.” 

His heart filled with gratitude, Sherlock closed his eyes, head thrown back in sheer relief. When he opened them, he was staring up at a ceiling tile left askew. 

“John, there’s something else you should know.”

“What now?”

“You know that evidence I said I hid?”

John turned off the water. “I don’t want to ask, do I?”

“It was right there, in the wall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **On False Memories**
> 
> I’ve had a keen interest in false memory syndrome since college. If you’re a detective fan, you know how unreliable eyewitnesses truly are. I’ve always wondered to what extent our memories can be altered without us even knowing it. I’ve done some research on this topic long before this story. When I teach the Crucible, I touch on this idea of False Memory Syndrone with my students, and we discuss the characteristics of those with the syndrome, such as, traumatic experiences and the younger the subject, the more suggestible. But a false memory could be as simple as believing you put your cellphone on the table when you didn’t.
> 
> For this story, I needed to dig into research on the subject done during the 1970s. I was surprised how much there was. I strive to keep this story as historically accurate as possible. The study that John is asked to conduct with Mary is based on a composit of studies and my own imagination. I do have some background in sociological theory (yeah, I hear that it’s not a “real” science all the time) and conducted a few studies in college, but that’s my extent of knowledge.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to hotshoeagain for the feedback and beta!

John stared at him. “A bomb,” John said, his voice echoing off the bathroom walls. He watched them in their reversed reflections in the grimy mirror. John watched Sherlock’s image blink rapidly, face flushed. Even rumpled with unruly curls sticking all over his head, the man looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. 

“You put a bomb in the wall,” John repeated. 

“Yes, I did,” Sherlock said, his eyes meeting John’s in the mirror. 

What were they doing in here? He wondered if he had stepped into a surreal episode of the  _ Twilight Zone _ . Another bathroom, another time, messages and phone numbers scrawled on the wall. None theirs, but it echoed of them just like their voices that bounced off the walls. 

John still held Sherlock’s wrist over the sink. He turned over his hand to see Sherlock’s palm was bright pink and shiny. John let go. 

Why was he sweating? He wiped off his forehead. The bathroom was cool. His heart hammered in his chest. Why? 

John clenched his jaw. Right … there once had been a bomb in the wall. He and the other members of this dormitory were only a few feet away from annihilation, and his roommate had put it there. 

“Is there anything else I should know about that you’re responsible for? Invading Cambodia? The Pentagon Papers? Breaking up the Beatles?”

“Very funny, John.”

John had limited space, but hell, he had a madman for a roommate. John began to pace. Maybe Sherlock was an alien. 

Not an episode of  _ Twilight Zone _ —maybe  _ Candid Camera _ . John flicked his eyes around the room wondering when Allen Funt was going to walk through the door and telling him to “ _ Smile, You’re on Candid Camera! _ ” 

No. This was real, all too real. This was his life, not some hokey television show. His eyes landed on Sherlock. Jesus, why did he have to stand there cradling his burned hand like a wounded child? Why did his eyes have to shimmer with misty tears? He was either a brilliant actor or ...

God, he looked even more pathetic pouting. John was beginning to cave and feel sorry for him. 

_ But a bomb? No!  _

“I hope you blister, and it leaves a scar.”

“I was making you soup!” Sherlock actually looked indignant. “I was trying to be thoughtful and in return you call me Yoko and wish me personal harm? That’s vicious and hardly necessary to say when I’m trying my utmost to be more forthcoming and honest.” 

John realized that his laugh was too shrill and sounded slightly hysterical, so he bit his lip and tried to stifle it. No need to draw attention to two men together in the bathroom.

“Honest? Forthcoming?” John took a deep breath. “You put a bomb in the wall. I don’t know about where you come from, but here that’s need to know information.” John stopped his pacing and crossed his arms. “Wait, that would mean you  _ brought  _ the bomb here? On a plane? My god, Sherlock, are you insane?”

“Not a bomb. A disarmed bomb.” Sherlock actually had the audacity to grin at him after he said it. How dare he look so fucking attractive and risk the whole building’s safety to hide, what? Evidence? 

“I saw it more as a test of Heathrow’s airport security,” Sherlock added. “In fact, I wrote Mycroft an extensive letter. In it, I listed forty-one directives that would prevent any unscrupulous person from boarding with a bomb.”

“Like you.”

“Hardly unscrupulous. I’d disarmed it.” 

“Disarmed? You keep saying that. Clearly, disarmed implies that it was once armed.”

“Yes, and I disarmed it.” Sherlock threw his arms in the air and batted his eyes. “I’m a disarming individual.”

“No! No jokes.” 

“Detroit Metropolitan Airport was just as inefficient. I instructed Mycroft to forward my recommendations.” 

John jumped as thunderous banging began on the other side of the door. 

“ _ Who the fuck is in there? Other people need to use the bathroom _ ,” the deep male voice bellowed.

“I knew this would happen,” John hissed at Sherlock. “Could you cool it?  _ Please _ ?”

“You were the one yelling.”

“ _ I hear two people in there. What the fuck are you doing _ ?” The banging continued.

“I … shit.  _ Just a moment _ !” John shouted at the door. He turned to Sherlock, voice lowered. “That also means it could be  _ rearmed _ .”

“That _ could _ be problematic,” Sherlock responded. 

“Problematic?” John yelled. “I don’t believe this.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t believe  _ you _ . I suppose you’re going to say that Moriarty took it.”

“That, or one of his henchmen.”

The banging stopped. Instead the voice on the other side turned ominous. “This is bogue! Do I have to break down the door?”

“That’s hardly necessary,” Sherlock said. He reached for the knob and flung the door open. There stood a hairy goliath wearing an old ratty bathrobe and flip flops. 

The guy easily made two of them put together. He had to be on the U of M’s football team.

Sherlock barreled out the door and John followed fast behind him. 

“Faggots,” the goliath hissed as they brushed by him out the door.

John spun around. A rocket of anger ignited inside his chest. “What did you call us?” John jabbed a finger into the man’s hairy chest. “Say it again.”

“I said,  _ faggots _ .” He stared down at John, but John didn’t back away. 

“That’s what he thought you said,” Sherlock said to goliath. 

John felt Sherlock’s hands settle on his shoulders. Sherlock guided John around and nudged him down the hall. 

“This is where we retreat and live to fight another day,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear.

“I am, indeed, homosexual,” Sherlock said, over his shoulder. “As for John, he will tell you emphatically that he is  _ not _ gay. Any other time we would stay and discuss your personal biases and John here would love to help redirect your word choice, but at the moment, we have a situation which involves the personal safety of this entire campus. I hope you are amenable to putting this whole discussion on hold?”

“Ah ... yeah ... I just needed to use the bathroom.”

“Very well.” Sherlock waved his hand toward the bathroom. “Go right ahead.” 

“You’re sure it’s gone?” John asked. 

“He is in the bathroom.”

“No, not  _ him _ . The bomb.”

“Yes. It is evident that the one who removed it wanted me to know and left the ceiling tile amiss. It was secured to 30 pound test fishing line and tied to a nail on a stud.” 

“You  _ are _ insane.” John opened the door to their room.

Sherlock waltzed in behind him as if people always hang bombs from nails in restrooms. 

“How’s your hand?” John asked as he closed the dorm room door behind them.

“It throbs and burns, but much better. The cold water helped. Thank you, John. No blistering. I hope you’re not too disappointed ...” 

Sherlock held out his hand for John to check it. John was about to reach out when their eyes met. There was no mistaking the look of longing on Sherlock’s face. 

John stepped back and Sherlock stepped forward.

“ _ John _ …” No mistaking that deep, needy rumble. “Please let me finish explaining.”

John had noticed over the time they’d been roommates, that being polite wasn’t something Sherlock did often. Usually manners were only a means to an end. Normally, he never thought to thank anyone. He was, however, polite to John. What was his purpose? John wondered about Sherlock’s motives and felt his blood pressure rising. Sex, it had to be sex. He’d hoped it was more. 

He thought of Mary’s advice. It would be difficult to get a new roommate this late in the term. An irrational rage filled him knowing that Sherlock knew John’s secret for so long and said nothing.

“I don’t want you to move out,” Sherlock blurted out.

_ How does he do that and know what I’m thinking? _ John thought. 

John covered his face and sighed. “I’m not going to move out.”

“I can warm the soup back up if you like.”

“No, that’s fine. Sherlock, sit down.”

Sherlock settled down on John’s bed, his long legs spread out in front of him and his hands clasped between his knees. John sat down next to him leaving a good three feet between them. 

John reasoned every person needed a friend. Sherlock had few, if any. 

Sherlock scooted closer and placed his hand on John’s thigh. 

“What are you doing?” John lifted Sherlock’s hand off his leg and onto the bed between them. “No. Just no. We’re not going back to that. I’ll be your roommate, but that’s it. I am not going to be your fuck buddy.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face was not what he expected. Instead of indignant or insulted, he looked defeated, crushed.

John sighed and shook his head. “You can be my friend or mate or whatever you call it, but not my bed mate.”

“I don’t have mates or friends.” 

John watched Sherlock rebuild the old brick wall around himself. His eyes turned cold. 

“You could have lots. You’re smart and funny. You just need to be more personable and not call people idiots.”

“I don’t do personable, and I don’t want ‘lots of friends’,” he said in a mocking tone. 

That hurt. “I guess that’s it then,” John said, and he bit his lip. “If you don’t want a friend and only a fuck, you need to find a new roommate who’s more accomdating.”

“John, you misunderstand. I don’t have _ friends _ . I have  _ one _ friend.  _ You _ .” His bottom lip quivered. “I enjoyed the sex we had, and I will miss it, but I would miss your company far more.”

John didn’t know what to say for a few moments. He nervously jiggled his foot, making the whole bed shake. “Good,” he finally said. “I really didn’t want to move.” 

“Nor I.”

“I do want to set some boundaries.” Unable to look into Sherlock’s face, John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s hand resting between them on the bed. 

“I am amenable to any suggestions you have—to a reasonable degree.”

“Right. So, no touching,” John said.

Sherlock hand twitched. “No touching. I can do that.”

“No talking about sex.”

His fingers curled into the bedspread. “That I can do.”

“No giving me those long, searing looks from across the room.”

He began thrumming his fingers against the mattress in impatience. “What looks are those?”

“You know exactly what those are.”

Sherlock’s hand stilled on the quilt. “What about the work?” Sherlock asked.

“What work?” John asked, innocently. He knew damn well what Sherlock was asking. 

“Helping me with Moriarty.”

John didn’t want to seem a push-over, but he’d already decided that he was in for this. He was going to be working on the new experiment with Mary Morstan. Who he had a date with tomorrow night. He needed to call her about the movie and time.

“Yeah, I’m still in,” John responded.

Sherlock’s hand gleefully slapped the mattress, the force bouncing his hand into the air. John’s eyes followed as Sherlock’s hand animatedly flew over his head. The future doctor in him noted that his patient’s face was no longer pale, but glowed. 

“Splendid!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Now tell me what happened today.”

John did, and told Sherlock all about the offer from Doyle to assist in the experiment. He told him about meeting Mary. He told him everything except he left out that he had a date tomorrow night with Mary.

—————--

Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was to spare his feelings or if it was just that John was uncomfortable with the topic. It didn’t matter because Sherlock knew the second John mentioned her, that he had more interest in this lab partner than a working relationship. His hesitation signaled to Sherlock his interest in this  _ Mary _ . Abominable! 

But it was more than a passing interest. John shoved his best shirt and trousers into a pillowcase along with some dirty socks and said he needed to do a quick load of laundry, Sherlock was positive: John had a date. 

John detested doing laundry. Every article of clothing had to be soiled and on what John called “a second run” before he’d bring himself to trudge his dirty clothes to the communal laundry. All of the East Quadrangle dorms shared a central facility and, most of the time, half of the washer and dryers were inoperable. The place was crowded, dirty, and hot. That was why Sherlock would always have his sent out to be cleaned. 

Sherlock waited for John to reappear. Two hours and a bag of clean laundry later, a surprised John entered the dorm room. He checked his watch nervously, then looked at the phone. Could John be any more transparent that he needed to call his date?

“I shall be going to the lab now,” Sherlock announced theatrically.

Sherlock breezed out of the room and shut the door behind him. He stopped dead on the other side and waited. Only a few minutes passed before Sherlock heard the desk chair creaking as John sat down, the clickity-click ding of John dialing the phone.

“Hi, is Mary in?”  _ Pause _ . “Sorry, it didn’t sound like you …”

Sherlock heard the cushion on the desk chair groan as John wiggled around in it. 

“Yeah. How about a movie?”  _ Pause.  _ More groaning from the chair. “I was thinking that the new Mel Brooks film looks good. Starts at nine.”  _ Double pause.  _ “Yeah, we could see that. What dorm? We walk over together.” _ Longer pause. _ John laughed. “Want to grab dinner first?” Chair creaked as John spun around. “See you at seven then.”

_ Who is this Mary Morstan?  _

Probably nothing to learn about her—just a silly girl with a boring life. He shouldn’t let it bother him. It’s only one date.

_ Why did it take two hours to eat before the movie began? _ Seemed excessive to Sherlock.  _ What did John plan to do all that time? Talk? Dull. _ Unless it’s John talking, then not so dull. Mary Morstan is the lucky one. 

He would investigate her. 

Sherlock staggered down the hall. Why did he feel like this? He braced his hand against the wall and the sting in his palm was a painful reminder of last night. He’d ruined it all. He should have told John in the beginning. 

His breath caught and he sputtered. Why did his chest feel as if it was being pressed with boulders? He still felt the way John tenderly held his wrist and tended to him. The hallway closed in and became a dank, dark chasm that threatened to crush him. What if he lost that touch?

Sherlock stumbled forward. Mycroft warned him about caring. What will he do when John goes out on this date? He can’t be there to see it. He can’t do it. 

Sherlock shuffled across campus like a zombie. He tried his best to shake the pain in his chest. He planned to hide away in the lab. 

He didn’t see or hear what was around him at all. He didn’t care. 

John had a date. He had a date. Tonight. Sherlock pulled his coat around him. The temperature had dropped dramatically in the last hour. As the howling wind bit at his neck, he regretted not grabbing his scarf.

He sought sanctuary in the science building and went straight to the lab, but he couldn’t concentrate. His heart wasn’t into sorting through test tubes and spying through microscopes. In the study alcove down the hall from the lab, he found a couch and burrowed into the filthy cushions and tried to nap.

He ignored the smell, but it continued to be a distraction. His mind refused to quiet. Instead of sleep, he spent most of his day inside his mind palace. Even there, he couldn’t escape. John was there:  _ “But I’m not gay. That night was only an experiment. You were only an experiment.” _ Moriarty creeped up behind him and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder:  _ “What were you thinking, my dear? Did you expect someone that deep inside the closet to come out for you?” _

At six-thirty, Sherlock found himself outside of his dorm, waiting for John to leave. He hid himself behind manicured evergreen shrubbery that lined the walkways. It was colder. John marched out down the concrete steps. It was dark enough in the shadows as long as he remained away from probing eyes of streetlights. 

Sherlock hunched down but could see that John’s half-zipped bomber jacket revealed the just-washed oatmeal jumper beneath. He was also wearing his best pair of Levi button-fly jeans. The familiar call of John’s Old Spice waifed in the air as he walked past. 

_ All for that Mary.  _

Jealousy ignited inside Sherlock and threatened to set the shrubs afire.

The wind licked at John’s neck, and he snapped his collar up on his bomber jacket. Sherlock began to cautiously tail his roommate across campus. Inside Sherlock’s head he could hear John calling his covert escapade, “not good.” He knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. Had promised not to keep secrets from John, but he had to see this Mary for himself and deduce what he could from her. If Moriarty had anything to do with this selection, it was highly suspicious, and Sherlock was certain she could not be trusted. Not that Sherlock would trust any woman (or man) alone with John. No one could escape John’s irresistible charms, except for Mycroft. Maybe. 

Sherlock made sure he was out of sight, but clever John would intermittently stop and turn around as if he suspected he was being followed. After the third time hesitating, he didn’t stop again until he reached the doors of the Martha Cook building. He made one last turn, shrugged and thrust his hands into the tight pockets of his jeans, then disappeared through the doors of the girls’ dorm. 

Sherlock remained outside, waiting. When they both exited the heavy oak front doors, she linked her arm with John’s and laughed at something he said as they stepped down the stairs. 

Her head tilted and touched John’s head. The act seemed so innocent, yet to Sherlock far too intimate. The act cut him, and it felt as if his blood and hope were leaving him as he watched the two together.

He chanced a closer look as they walked down State Street. The sidewalk buzzed with college students and families. People darted across streets and bustled down the sidewalks of the business district. It was nothing like the bustle of London. Sherlock almost preferred American’s attitude on the street. None of the overdone civilities he left behind. If a passerby happened to bump into him, they’d ignore him and continue. No, “excuse me” or “so sorry.” Rare was a stranger who met Sherlock’s eyes and felt inclined to extend a false smile. Instead, people’s eyes fixed on their feet or looked at a spot in the distance. A few would blatantly stare, but Sherlock felt the American’s gawking preferable to the British polite nod. On this street in Ann Arbor, he found comfort in becoming invisible. That point of invisibility and the vacant stares allowed Sherlock to press within five feet of them without revealing himself. 

He watched their backs. Two blond heads bobbing back and forth, her arm still linked with his, her hands warm in the white mittens. Her white knit scarf was tucked around her neck and covered her chin. The belt on her grey wool peacoat was cinched tightly around her waist. She wore black bell-bottom trousers beneath with black lace-up army boots. 

Sherlock knew immediately—she was not what she appeared to be.

_ Size 12. _

_ Cat lover.  _

_ Secrets. _

_ Owns tabby and hides in her dorm room. _

_ Crochets.  _

_ Knits _ .

He kept his distance. She pivoted slightly as she brushed John’s cheek with her finger, then pointedly looked back.

_ She knows I’m following. _

_ Clever.  _

_ Liar. _

With each step, Sherlock tried his best to detach himself from sentiment. He buried all his longing and desires underground. He must protect John Watson. 

_ Dangerous. _

_ Dangerous. _

_ Dangerous. _

He continued to tail them to the East End Alley. John chose a small dining establishment named Bartell’s Grill. As the two stepped through the bright red swinging doors, Sherlock took a deep breath. He couldn’t follow them into the diner without being noticed. He hated being forced to linger outside the restaurant. His only respite was to chain smoke. 

It was agony.  _ What were they talking about? Who was she?  _ He needed to observe her closer. 

An hour passed. Then longer.  _ There was simply nothing that interesting she could be saying to him to keep them that long. _ Finally,  _ finally _ , they emerged. 

Sherlock already surmised that the “historic” State Theater was their obvious destination. Sherlock found the American title “historic,” laughable—it had a completely different meaning in the states. While the Art Deco style was indeed magnificent, this particular cinema was built in1942—a mere infant compared to the theaters in London and Paris. 

Sherlock held to the back of the line as John bought tickets. The movie, according to the chasing lightbox on the marquee, announced  _ Heaven Can Wait _ . The poster was of a handsome young angel in sweatpants and trainers gazing down at a watch he held in his palm. Not a movie John would choose. It wasn’t James Bond.

This was an abomination. This Mary woman clung on him, laughed at his jokes, and made him take her to movies about heavenly beings that didn’t exist. Sherlock had no interest in such nonsense. He could stomach John’s love for action films and biographies, but this? 

The line inched along, and the pair disappeared inside the theater. After Sherlock purchased his ticket, he found them exactly where he predicted: balcony, center, eighth row from the front. He could have sat two or three rows behind them. He could have continued to observe them from afar eating popcorn, but he’d assessed all he could from a distance. 

He waited until the movie had begun, and took the empty seat next to John.

John turned his head. Their eyes met. 

“Good evening, John.” Sherlock made certain that his voice was low and rumbled. It always got the desired reaction from John.

“What?” John’s eyes widened then narrowed to slits. “Sherlock! What are you doing here?” he hissed under his breath.

“I am watching a movie.” He said low and matter-of-factly. 

“You …” John gritted his teeth, which was distracting with bits of popcorn stuck between them. “... do not watch movies … you insult them.”

“John?” Mary said. He saw her hand, tugging on the sleeve of his oatmeal jumper. 

She had no right to tug on the sleeve of his oatmeal jumper!

“You need to leave,” John spat out. 

“What?” Mary raised an eyebrow.

“Not you,” he said to Mary. “Him.” He nodded to Sherlock, snarling in his direction. He clenched his jaw and the muscles in his cheeks trembled.

Thinking it best to ignore John’s outburst, Sherlock leaned forward into John’s space. With intent to mark his territory, Sherlock helped himself to a handful of popcorn from the tub John had secured between his thighs. 

He popped three pieces into his mouth.  _ Too much butter.  _

“You must be Mary.” He held out his other hand, and she shook it. “I’m Sherlock,” he said. 

With the mittens off, he noticed her hand.

_ Calluses.  _

_ Liar. _

_ Assassin. _

“Raisinets?” Mary asked, offering Sherlock some from her box.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. He leaned over John and took a few of the disgusting morsels to be polite. 

He leaned back in his seat and smiled at John, who refused to smile back. In fact, his face reminded Sherlock of a cartoon character Sherlock watched only yesterday on the telly. Elmer Fudd had that same angry expression down to the smoke billowing out of his ears. 

“Don’t talk. Don’t say a word. No commentaries at all during the movie, just shut up.”

He should tell John his deductions about Mary. But would he be receptive? Not likely at the moment, but John was not Elmer Fudd. John was intelligent, steady, and thoughtful. John was magnificent. But he also hand his hand on Mary’s thigh. John was compromised. 

He could break the spell. Sherlock could spill John’s popcorn all over him. Too bad he already finished his drink, but that would be going too far even for him. He’d wait.

He could ignore John and comment on the film. Or other things ...

He had made the mistake of not telling John before. However painful, he knew he must tell John his deductions. But not now, not in the theater, and not with Mary here. 

Sherlock sat back and watched the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Candid Camera:** American classic, long-running television show [Candid Camera](https://groovyhistory.com/smile-youre-on-candid-camera), was originally produced and starred Allen Funt. The show was the first of the hidden camera pranks prevalent on television today. The original show concealed cameras and filmed everyday people in unusual situations, often with a gimmicky trick or props. When revealed, the victims were told the show's catchphrase, "Smile, you're on Candid Camera." The show often played its hidden-camera pranks on celebrities, which made for more entertainment.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to hotshoeagain for the excellent beta!

“A murder,” Sherlock whispered to John as they watched the film. “But they revealed the murderers immediately. What kind of whodunit is this?”

“Shhh!” John hissed.

Despite being angry, John seemed to have temporarily forgotten Sherlock’s butting in on the date as he watched Joe Pendleton’s exploits in _ Heaven Can Wait_. The protagonist was also an American football player, a quarterback, just as in the movie _ Brian’s Song _that John loved. Pendleton was accidentally taken from his body by an overanxious angel before his time had come. To make up for the error, he was returned to life in the body of a murdered millionaire named Farnsworth. 

Murder? Boring. Nothing to solve, not even minor elements of plot.

“He will fall in love with her,” Sherlock divulged to John. “_Predictable_.”

“Will you shut up?” John muttered. 

Sherlock reminded himself to remain silent throughout the remainder of the film. He busied himself reading Mary and divining her motives, then reading the lives of the people seated near them. 

Directly in front of them was an acupuncturist, out for the evening with the wife. Although he’s cheating on her—no it’s an open marriage—they have two children, approximately ages three and five. Also a white angora cat. 

An unusual event occurred; the movie took a spin Sherlock did not expect. Of course he foresaw that Pendleton would be placed into a body at the Super Bowl, but why would an athletic event be named after an exceedingly large saucer? Heaven took away his memories of his life! What a horrible outcome: to have Joe stripped of his identity.

Now he would never find his true love.

But that was not the case: she knew him or saw that part of him. They walked away together as the credits rolled.

“Are you crying?” Sherlock asked.

“No. Just something in my eyes,” John mumbled.

When his true love follows Joe in his new body, Sherlock wondered if there was something in his eyes as well.

Sherlock stood. “Despite being formulaic, the movie was surprisingly entertaining,” Sherlock said, brushing the popcorn kernels off his trousers. 

“Don’t talk to me,” John said.

“The movie is over. You said not to speak until that time.”

John shook his head in disgust. “Yet you still couldn’t keep it shut.” 

Mary inched forward in her seat. Despite the exaggerated sniffling during the film, her eyes were suspiciously dry. No doubt a ploy to snuggle closer to John. 

“Does he always do this when you have dates?” she asked.

“He doesn’t have dates,” Sherlock said.

“Just stop.” 

Most of the theater was cleared, few people were still leaving. John stubbornly remained seated with Mary still seated next to him.

“The movie _ is _ over,” John said, irritated. 

“I believe I said that,” Sherlock said. 

“That’s what you came for. Go back to the dorm. I’m walking Mary back to hers.” John turned to Mary. “Ready?”

“Yes. It was nice to meet you, Sherlock.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock said. 

“_ Not likely _,” Sherlock heard John say under his breath.

“Do not follow us,” John ordered. “Promise me.”

Sherlock chewed his lip.

“Well?” John asked, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

“Yes, yes. I promise.”

So, John was leaving. _ With her_. Sherlock inched down the aisle, not looking back, yet still knowing they’d stood and were leaving as well. From the corner of his eye, he watched them leave. While he was certain she wouldn’t do anything tonight, he would never trust her. Every fiber inside him cried out to follow behind them, but if he followed, John would resent it. And if he caught Sherlock doing so, he would turn around and tell Sherlock to “fuck off.” 

He trod back to the dorm, trying his best to ignore the drop in temperature. He favored his hand since it still ached from the burn, and kept that hand tucked inside his pocket.

He’d promised. Why had he promised?

Sherlock didn’t look forward to the tongue-lashing John was sure to give him when he returned to the dorm. Although he was fairly certain John suspected that Mary wasn’t what she appeared, he knew John was certain to be even more angry when he told John what he’d deduced about Mary. John must face facts. Her age, for example. He was dating an older woman. She had to be thirty. 

You can’t trust anyone over thirty. 

And her hands, the tiny calluses on her fingers. From friction. A hand gun. John must have noticed. And she’d recently fired a rifle. She had a tiny bruise under her eye and not from trapshooting. Every movement and mannerism screamed she was not American. Like Moriarty, she oozed genius. She’d dissected Sherlock methodically. 

Mary Morstan was a very dangerous woman.

Big, fat flakes began floating down. They clung to his lashes and hair. His first real Michigan snowfall, and John wasn’t here. 

He almost turned around twice to follow them. He reminded himself that John was capable. Still, doubts formed. 

And he would wait as well. He’d temper himself. Heaven could wait, so could he. 

He’d promised, hadn’t he? 

Snow began to blow down and around so fast and furiously that Sherlock could hardly see two feet in front of him. It was nothing like what he’d experienced in London. Yes, the wind howled and the snow came down in blankets, but not with this ferocity. He’d heard of blizzards in the states with drifts that buried autos. 

He continued in the proper direction, passing a bicycle rack, a phonebooth, and other recognized landmarks being submerged in blankets of white. 

Suddenly his face was burning cold. Ice! Ice was falling from the sky. What kind of Hell was Michigan? The wind thundered by and his coat whipped his legs. The sidewalk transformed into a massive skating rink. He watched as people slipped and slid, more than one falling on their arse. He ducked into a bus shelter to escape the pelting abuse.

In less than fifteen minutes, it all stopped—except the wind. It pushed him along on the rink like a skater. He braved it the rest of the way to his dorm.

The door to his room never looked so welcoming. He was wet and miserable and felt damned tired. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into the warmth of his bed and sleep for twelve hours. He had his hand on the handle when from behind the door, Sherlock heard the familiar squish and squeak of someone rising out of the desk chair.

There was no way that John had beat him back.

Sherlock hesitated before he swung the door open. 

“Home Sweet Home,” James chimed out. He waltzed around as if he lived there. 

He stopped, running his finger across the dresser, and cringed before he blew the dust from his hand. “My, my what a lovely place you have.” 

“Get out,” Sherlock said, pulling his coat off. 

“Is that anyway to welcome the one you love?” James asked. 

Sherlock scowled. He never turned his back on him as he hung his coat in the corner. 

“How was the show?” James asked, spinning around. “I haven’t seen it, but I do love Warren Beatty. He’s a handsome devil.”

“_ Warren Beatty _?” Sherlock said. 

“Oh, yes, you don’t do popular culture. _ Boring_.” He breezed by Sherlock and continued to the bed. “ _ He _ was the protagonist. The man in another man’s body.” James flashed Sherlock a wicked grin. “I do enjoy that idea. But a do-gooder?” James said with distaste.

“A shame you can’t appreciate that characteristic.”

James patted John’s bed. “You never used to. What happened? John Watson? Mycroft would never approve.”

Sherlock sighed. 

“He’s very suggestable,” James winked. He sat down on John’s bed. 

“Leave him out of this,” Sherlock hissed. 

He looked into James’ eyes. _ There it was. _ He was overcompensating whilst playing Mr. Overconfident, which _ always _ meant he was lying to Sherlock.

“Now, now, now. What did your brother dear tell you about caring?”

_ Oh, now you’ve trying to distract me by dangling my brother. You tried and it didn’t work, didn’t you James? No, John isn’t suggestable. Not at all. _

“Leave Mycroft out of this,” Sherlock said, playing along because to what lengths might James go if he can’t use his usual methods?

“Why so defensive? _ Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_, you don’t belong with John Watson. He’s not for you. He’s a man with conscience, a man with principles, a man forever demanding justice. Oh, my dear, Sherlock, you know where you belong. Come with me, back to London.”

“I’d rather not.” 

James wrinkled his nose as he smoothed his hand over John’s bedspread. 

“This John Watson is so sentimental. Look at this quilt. His grandmother pieced it together using remnants of John’s old clothes. I bet he cherishes it. Hmm. Maybe I should set it on fire. Or better, set John Watson on fire.”

“I swear. If you harm him or his quilt, I will kill you.”

James laughed. “That is rich! You could end this right now and save your precious John Watson.”

James hung his head and shook his head woefully. His head flew up, his tone suddenly shifted, his voice sing-song. “You’re making the wrong choice!” he sang.

“At least it is my choice.” 

He needed James gone before John returned. He should be here shortly unless Mary asked him in …

“_ Get out _.” 

“Tut, tut! So bossy. And we’re not even in bed together!” James shot Sherlock a wilted smile.

“Leave now!”

“I will,” James said as he stood, “but know this and do not doubt my words: If you do not come with me to London, I will burn the heart out of you.” 

“I have been told I don’t have a heart.”

“Oh, tin man, we both know you do. There it is,” James said, flicking Sherlock’s shirt with his finger, “you’re wearing it on your sleeve.”

“Come with me or he’ll end up like Victor. You remember?”

Sherlock felt like he was about to vomit. Better no one was here when John returned if this was the choice. Sherlock put on his coat. There had to be a way out of this. 

This time he grabbed his scarf and gloves before he followed James out the door. 

“Tap, tap, tap!” James said.

As Sherlock followed, he hadn’t resigned himself to going with Moriarty yet. Other than killing the bastard or being killed, he didn’t know how to save John. Calling his brother for help was no longer out of the question. He may have to have his help. 

While Sherlock did his best to remain upright, James seemed to float over the ice. Of course he did; the man was made of it. 

And of course he’d lead him to this place, a pool. The thing of Sherlock’s nightmares. His heart hammered against his chest, and he fought to control his breathing. 

Of course James would choose this. The guilt never left Sherlock. He still closed his eyes and saw Victor’s body floating, the water red with blood swirling around his head. It hadn’t mattered to James that Victor was only a fling. James wouldn’t share, and poor Victor paid for Sherlock’s lapse in judgement. 

He promised Sherlock he would never do it again, but that was before Sherlock had broken his promise to never leave.

With trepidation, Sherlock stepped behind James inside and the lights flipped on overhead, one-by-one. James always had a flare for the dramatic. Relief filled him to see that John wasn’t floating in the water. 

Sherlock’s trained eyes detected a glint here and there from the bleachers. No one other than him would notice this, but it was clear that James had marksmen at the ready. Sherlock was certain one of the rifles belonged to a Mary Morstan. 

“If you kill him, I’ll never go with you,” Sherlock said.

———--

Sherlock had ruined the evening with Mary. After the whole farce in the theater, asking John to come up for a cup of coffee became almost moot. He told her he had to get back to the dorm. 

“No telling what that madman might do next,” John said.

“He’s really handsome,” Mary said. “But you’re right, he is a big jerk.” She pulled her scarf over her head. “I know you don’t want to put off talking to him, but you really should come up and get warm. It’s starting to sleet.”

At least he might be able to get a hot cup of coffee and a kiss goodnight out of this. 

“Sure.”

“I don’t understand why he stayed there. He wasn’t all that interested in the movie until the end. It couldn’t be comfortable sitting there with us.”

“And he ate most of the popcorn.” Mary raised an eyebrow.

“I did tell him to leave,” John said, opening the door for her. “He just never listens.”

“Maybe if he thought you really meant it,” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what that means.” 

Her place was the typical dorm room with posters on the wall, psychedelic patterned bedspreads, and throw pillows everywhere. 

John looked around as she busied herself pouring the coffee in her make-shift kitchen on top of a counter of milk crates and plywood. She had a collection of posters lining the walls. “Keep on Truckin’” joined with a large collection of felt Peanuts banners, including Snoopy sitting on top of his doghouse shouting, “Curse you, Red Baron!” 

The room was smaller than John and Sherlock’s, but they’d managed to stuff in two twin beds, a plywood desk, two small dressers, and a bookcase made out of stacked bricks and boards. A large collection of books and albums spilled out of the bookcase, and a portable record player precariously sat on the top of it. 

Four black bean-bag chairs joined the throw pillows on the floor. John hated those squishy chairs. When he sat down, he had to crawl out of the damn things. He hated that they were the only options people had here. He’d either had to sit in one of them, or the lone aluminum folding chair at the desk. Or one of the beds.

“My roommate is out for the weekend,” she said matter-of-factly. 

That sounded like a hint to John. Beds? He might sit there. Normally, John would want to take advantage, but not tonight. He plopped down into one of the bean-bag chairs. She handed him his coffee in an old chipped mug. John took a sip, then another. It was bitter, but at least it was hot. 

Mary grabbed one of the bean-bag chairs, and pulled in right next to John’s. She sat down in it cross-legged and sipped her coffee.

“Ah, hello,” John said.

“Hello,” she smiled.

The chair was either very relaxing or he’d been … “drugged,” John said.

“Right you are!” said Mary. 

He wondered what she’d given him. _ Something fast acting_, he thought just before he lost consciousness.

> In a dream-like state, John drifted. He could hear bits and pieces of conversations. He didn’t know if they were real or imagined. In his mind he watched Moriarty walk away. John raced after him to the dorm. Like many dreams he’d had, his legs felt as if they had irons on them, holding him back. The sidewalk became a lake covered with ice. He slipped. The treacherous ice cracked beneath his feet, splintering. The lake threatened to take him beneath the ice, never to escape. He was too close to the edge. He had to warn Sherlock. He couldn’t let himself slip into the water. He concentrated on remaining upright. If he fell, he would be lost. 
> 
> Was this real? He slid, closer to the edge. What would he tell Sherlock, and what should he do? He inched back, but with every step, the ice splintered beneath his feet, the cracks expanding out. He could only relax when he got to his dorm. He will warn Sherlock then. What if Moriarty beat him back? What would he find? Sherlock hurt? Dead? Or … 
> 
> … find Sherlock lounging on John’s bed with his eyes closed?
> 
> From beneath the ice came a familiar voice: “I am sorry to interrupt your date.” _Not baritone. _

“W-who?” John blinked. Was he awake? What was this?

And where were the sea-green twinkles and baritone vibrations? _ Interrupted his date? _ Not Sherlock. Who? John shook his head.

“I told you it was tricky,” he heard Mary saying. “I had to be careful counteracting the drug to revive him.”

_ Drugged. That was it. _

His eyes didn’t want to cooperate. Shuffling feet. Someone crouched beside him. A sharp slap and John’s head snapped back with a bang into cold metal behind him.

_ Mary drugged him. Where was he? _It explained his muddy dreams. No coincidence then that when he finally was able to pry his eyes open, Sherlock had somehow transformed into Sebastian Moran. 

“N-no you’re not Sherlock,” John said. 

“You are correct. I’m not,” Moran said with disgust. He slapped John again, harder. 

“Hitting me isn’t helping,” John said. The man was spinning around in circles. Either that or he was the one spinning. In an effort to stop the world from whirling, John tried to halt it and pressed his hands against the cold floor.

Moran’s feet were planted in front of him. He always wore those ugly penny loafers.

“Pay attention,” Moran barked. “You need to stand.”

“I don’t think so,” John said.

Was that a gun in his hand? John tipped his head up to see Mary.

There she was with Moran. At least she wasn’t holding a gun, just a syringe.

“Glad to see you awake, John,” she said.

“Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” recited John, his voice slurring.

She seemed amused. “I never had a garden,” she replied. “Always wanted one though.”

This had to be the worst date he’d ever had. What kind of a date drugged you? This was worse than that blind date that Mike’s brother fixed John up with. What was her name? She smelled like cheese and wanted John to stop and buy 9-volt batteries for her transistor radio because she couldn’t miss Elton John’s interview on WJAR. 

John blinked as Moran snapped his fingers in front of John’s face. At least it was better than getting slapped again. The fog in his head was beginning to clear. He scanned the room, and it looked strangely like he was in a locker room. 

“James told me that Sherlock had a dog named Redbeard. He spoke fondly of the dog,” Mary said. 

He felt nauseous and tired and wondered why Mary’s dorm room smelled like men’s dirty socks, and why the fuck was she talking about Sherlock like he was some long-lost friend?

Except … he was no longer in a bean bag chair, and there was no Snoopy banner hanging on the wall, but there was Mary. Why was he in Mary’s dorm room with Sebastian Moran? Oh, yeah. He was drugged.

“He killed Redbeard, you know, not intentionally. He was careless. Sherlock is often careless,” she continued. “He’s responsible for you being here right now.”

Mary tapped the syringe against the tile floor. _ Tap, tap, tap. _

“No, that would be you,” John said.

Mary shook her head, pulling a pad and pen from her coat pocket. “The poor dog drowned,” Mary continued. “Sherlock does that, unintentionally or not, he destroys what he cares for most. He may speak of you with the same reverence, but you should be wary of him. You should heed my warning or you will meet the same fate as poor Redbeard. That bomb, for instance …”

“What bomb?” John’s head throbbed. The pen had taken the syringe’s place. 

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

“Oh, don’t play innocent. You know very well what bomb. The bomb Sherlock strapped to your chest.”

John looked down. “Sherlock?” He should be panicking, but he felt like a bowl of spaghetti. “He didn’t,” he said.

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

“Oh, but he did. James ordered him to do it. Sherlock must prove that he is loyal. You are the test. All he has to do is push the button.”

“Sherlock will never do that,” he said. 

“The effects of the ketamine should be wearing off soon,” Mary said. “Seb, help John stand.” 

Moran tucked his gun away, then grabbed John under his arms, and Mary watched and scribbled something on the pad. They lifted John onto wobbly legs. She patted him on the shoulder.

“But he will. I like you,” Mary said. “Too bad it has to end this way. You at least need to know the truth. He was never your friend.”

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

John awkwardly stepped back away from their grasp. Sherlock Holmes might be a lot of things, but he would never strap a bomb to his chest, would he? Sherlock did this? What kind of man straps a bomb to someone’s chest? Although the bomb weighed surprisingly little, John leaned back against the lockers.

“Careful, it’s a high explosive. Detonation will be rather messy,” she said, tapping the pen on the pad again.

_ Will be? _ John thought. That did not bode well. Despite the haze in his head, John knew he was in deep trouble. He didn’t believe it, would never believe Sherlock would harness a live bomb to him.

Moran reached behind and pulled his gun out of his belt and let it rest on John’s temple. John knew he should be nervous or upset. Instead he felt angry. Never a cruel person, John was surprised that he had a satisfying vision of ripping off Moran’s arms and legs like wings off flies. 

“I watched him do it myself,” Moran said. “Holmes wasn’t happy about it, but what James wants, James gets.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The barrel bit into his temple as Moran continued to nudge it against his skull. Moran snarled at John, and John snarled back. 

“Either shoot me or blow me up,” John said. “Make up your fucking mind.”

John’s eyes fastened on Mary’s pen. Doubt filled him. Sherlock didn’t do this to him, did he? John’s mind wasn’t clear, but he couldn’t believe it. He supposed either way death would happen so fast that he wouldn’t feel much, but he didn’t relish the thought of being blown into tiny bits or getting his brains splattered all over the lockers.

“All Sherlock needs to do is push this button. He holds your fate in his hands.” She pointed at John’s chest. “I hope that it isn’t necessary. You’re cute, and I did like our date even if Sherlock interrupted it. But that was the plan.”

She tapped the pen a few more times before ripping off the note she wrote and handing it to John.

John took it. As he glanced down to read it, Mary bent forward and kissed him on the forehead. 

“So long, John,” she said. “If I don’t see you again, nice to know you. If I do, call me.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” John said.

“Walk out. Don’t say anything except what’s on this script she wrote, or we’ll shoot you,” Seb said. “We’ll be watching from behind the bleachers, making sure that Sherlock fulfills his end. Now, zip up your jacket.”

John’s hands were shaking, but he did it. 

He straightened his back and walked forward like a drunk following a line on the cement floor. 

Sherlock strapped the bomb to him? James had been testing him? He should have seen this coming. He should have known. But why go to all this trouble? What purpose did it serve? And that tapping?

He didn’t want to believe any of it. No, Sherlock wouldn’t do that, would he?

He kept his shoulders back and tried his best to clear his head of this confusion as Moran pushed him toward the door. John wanted a clear mind before he left this world, especially if he was going to punch the son of a bitch in the face first. He just wasn’t sure which son of a bitch it was going to be yet. 

John’s head jerked up the moment he heard Moriarty’s voice on the other side of the door. When Sherlock’s voice answered, John’s heart sank: _ “That’s what this has all been about? Your puzzles and making me dance—I’m here. You have me. I did what you asked.” _

So it was true. He did what Moriarty asked. This was his doing.

Moran pushed John through the swinging metal door. John stepped out.

_ Matt Mann Pool. _John thought. The chlorine was thick in the air, making his nose and eyes burn. Sherlock stood between the bleachers and the pool with Moriarty. Sherlock’s eyes widened the second he spotted John. 

————-

“John,” Sherlock whispered. This was a nightmare. 

“Evening,” John read from a note in his hand. 

“Why is he here?” Sherlock yelled out to James. “I came with you.”

John’s brows knotted in confusion. 

“Bet you never saw this coming,” John read. He unzipped his coat, revealing the bomb. He let his jacket slide off his shoulders and into a heap on to the blue floor tiles. “I needed insurance that you’d comply with my demands. It needs to be completed. Consulting criminals. Partners in every way.”

“I’m doing what you asked,” Sherlock said. He stepped directly into Moriarty’s space. 

“But there _ you _ are,” Moriarty grinned. “Come to me at last.”

He sniffed along Sherlock’s neck. It was close enough for Sherlock to slip his hand inside and deftly snatch the remote from inside James’ suit coat. 

Sherlock immediately stepped back, relieved that he had the remote, but instead of angry, James was pleased. John's mouth opened in shock. 

James reached into his other pocket. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Not a gun, but a pen.

“How was your date with our Mary Morstan?” James asked, tapping the pen against his cheek.

John’s mouth closed as he stared at the pen. Sherlock read the doubt and confusion in John’s eyes. The pen! Of course. He was using it in some way to try and manipulate John. 

Only a few feet from the pool’s deep end, Sherlock stepped closer to John. He needed to break the spell. 

“John. I’m here.”

John blinked as his eyes rapidly. He’d heard him. He needed to distract him from James. His eyes were still on the pen. 

“I have the remote,” Sherlock said. 

It worked. John’s eyes moved off Moriarty’s pen and rested on the remote in Sherlock’s hand. 

“Yes, you do,” John said. His eyes were wet. “Why do you have the remote?” John asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. This wasn’t the reaction he wanted from John. He was upset, distrurbed. What game was James playing?

“Tut, tut, tut! Seb told you to stick to the script,” James taunted John. “But you hardly need an answer. You can see with your own eyes. You know why, and what I’ve asked him to do. If you’ve got something to say to him Johnny-boy, go ahead. You don’t have much time.”

“What did he ask you to do, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Leave with him,” Sherlock said.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“I didn’t understand why I ever doubted your opinion of the assistant professor Moriarty,” John said, looking at the note. “The man is oily.”

“Stick to the script,” Moriarty said.

“It is the script.” 

“Mary needs to stop improvising.” 

“This all because Sherlock left you?” John crumpled up the note and dropped it on the floor.

James tapped his temple. “You see him, but your puny mind can’t comprehend what he is, what I am, and what we are together. Our genius combined, more than a sum of our parts.”

“That’s not the way it is.” Sherlock shook his head. 

“I need you beside me, or out of my way.” 

“Or out of your way,” John repeated. “He got out of your way. He came all the way across the ocean to get out of your way.”

“And that would last but for a few years, then he would have returned and taken up the chase, wouldn’t you, Sherlock? Not that I mind the chase, but you’re forever in my business.” James looked again at John. “He’s obsessed with me,” he said conspiratorially. 

Sherlock stared at the remote. _Wrong._ _This was wrong. _James was slipping his hand in his trousers. 

“You may push the button now, Sherlock. It’s the little red one. Go ahead. Push it.”

Sherlock rushed John. All those hours of practicing card tricks kept his hands fast and nimble. He covertly reached into his Belstaff’s deep pocket and retrieved a penknife from its depths. He swept his arms around John, tightly hugging him. One hand stealthily slipped open the penknife, and he hooked it neatly under one strap. With a flick of his wrist, he cut it clean through. Sherlock worked his act. A bit of misdirection was needed. His other hand swung the remote around. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered. “For the love of God, step away from me!”

“My, my. That is what I love about you, so full of surprises.” James brushed off his suit-jacket sleeve, then glanced at his watch.

Sherlock shook his head and winked at John. 

“Time’s a-wastin!” James chimed out, tapping the pen. He turned, putting distance between them. “Your date with destiny is waiting. Push. The. Button.”

“Should I?” Sherlock theatrically whispered back into John’s ear. Then he winked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nostalgia of Mary’s dorm room:  
**Bean bag chairs:** These are making a comeback again. I hate them. Impossible to get out of (John has the same complains me) and uncomfortable, these chairs were in every where in the 1970s when they gained popularity. They were around long before the 1960s, however. With a little research, I found their history can be traced back more than four thousand years to ancient Egypt and were also used as training tools in ancient China by students of tai chi. 
> 
> **Peanuts Banners:** These banner from the American cartoonist Charles Schultz came out in the 1960s and continued in popularity into the 70s. I had them in my room at home. These felt banners came in rainbow colors. Here’s a picture of “Curse you Red Baron!”  

> 
> **Keep on Truckin':** Robert Crumb’s poster 1968 single Zap comic sparked many reprints and new creations on his part, including the font. [Here’s a link](https://www.etsy.com/listing/722321220/vintage-robert-crumb-keep-on-truckin?gpla=1&gao=1&&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=shopping_us_c-art_and_collectibles-prints-digital_prints&utm_custom1=33ab4280-e3bb-4b16-ab19-ea8ad7bc6f5a&utm_content=go_304499675_22746190355_78727420355_pla-106555091555_c__722321220&gclid=Cj0KCQiAs67yBRC7ARIsAF49CdXESizz7vu9mwgSXZ_e4OpwJoaniFZg4GhXdDk8_nLhcIBkfQl01DIaAroIEALw_wcB) since the copyright on this has been abused over the years and I don’t want to violate it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone commenting and leaving kudos and all those who are following and reading this story. All of you are deeply appreciated.


	12. Chapter 12

My God, Sherlock had just winked! Sherlock’s eyes locked with John’s. Sweet relief washed over John. As usual, Sherlock had understood. With arms grasping John tighter, John felt lighter. 

John winked back. Sherlock returned a soft smile. 

“Isn’t that sweet?” James crooned. He stepped nearer to Sherlock. John didn’t know much about suits, but he’d only seen something like what Moriarty was wearing in films. He looked like something Clark Gable would wear. Probably made in Italy or some such shit. 

“And you found a stray at a motorway service station and he followed you home,” Moriarty hummed. “I don’t understand how people take in strays and become so attached to their pets.” 

“I’m not a pet,” John growled.

_ Sure _ , John thought, _ I have a bomb harnessed to me, but at least I have Sherlock sawing through another strap on this vest. Fucking crazy bastard. _

“Push. The. Button,” James repeated.

“Nag, nag, nag,” Sherlock smirked. Above his head, Sherlock’s hand held the remote with his finger poised and flexing above the little red button. 

Chest to chest, John wasn’t sure whose heart was pounding the hardest as Sherlock’s finger hovered there.

Moriarty didn’t budge an inch. Of course not. 

Sherlock pressed the button as the knife popped the last thread on the vest. John gasped in relief as the vest dropped to the floor. 

“You are brilliant.” Sherlock glowed at John’s words. 

Moriarty’s eyebrow shot up in surprise as John took aim and kicked the vest. It spun around and around as it skidded across the floor, coming to a halt just in front of Moriarty’s feet. 

Sherlock watched in sheer delight. “Excellent aim,” he observed. 

“All those hours playing soccer and kicking the ball into Mike’s nuts helped.” John hoped Sherlock had a plan in that big brain of his. “You can probably let go of me,” John smirked between gasps. “People will talk.”

“Oh, let them. We could dance. I love dancing,” Sherlock grinned. “A waltz would be nice.” He whispered in John’s ear. “The remote is in his trouser pocket.”

“Places everyone!” James clapped. “It’s time to end the game!” James kicked the bomb back toward where John and Sherlock stood still embracing. 

John didn’t think; he reacted. He immediately let go of Sherlock and launched himself at Moriarty. 

“You fucking ass,” John said as he rushed him. He plowed Moriarty to the ground. He was also an excellent wrestler. He took James down the way he was taught, with his hips. He had James pinned to the floor in two seconds, and James was actually whimpering as John twisted his arm up the middle of his back.

John really didn’t want to do this, but some sacrifices had to be made. John reached around his arm. The pool tile floor brushed his knuckles. 

“Watson? You devil!” James gasped. “Sherlock will be jealous. Isn’t that your hand in my trouser pocket?” 

“You tell me! Is this a teeny-tiny remote control device or are you just happy to see me?” John shot back. He pulled out the remote, tossing it deftly to Sherlock. 

He loathed being this close to the oily man, but John reckoned he was safe from the snipers this close to Moriarty, and Sherlock with the remote afforded him a bit more protection. 

“How do you stand his foul mouth? He is most uncouth,” James said, struggling beneath.

John gave James’ arm a sharp tug.

“Ooo, I now understand what you like about him. Such a rugged, country boy. I bet he wrestles bears in the wild.”

“That’s right,” John said.

“I’m sorry you had to find out about our Mary the way you did,” James said. He’d quit struggling. 

“You didn’t have to tell me about Mary. I already knew,” John hissed.

“That she’s a hired assassin?” Moriarty said.

John laughed. “No, that she’s a lousy date.”

“Tut, tut! That’s too bad. She had her sights on you,” Moriarty giggled. “And now she does, literally, trained right on your head! One word from me, and she will blow out what little brains you have across the tile floor. I suggest you let me go.”

“Let him up, John,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head. 

“Very well,” Moriarty said. “If you do not let me up, I will give the order to shoot Sherlock.”

“Don’t let him up, John. He won’t do it.”

John loosened his hold. He couldn’t chance it. He rolled off Moriarty. He ended up two feet from the edge of the pool, on his back looking up at the ceiling. John wondered how the hell it all came to this. He waited for the blast of a headshot. Nothing. 

He turned his head to James’ shoes tapping against the tile floor. 

“So close and yet so far.” Moriarty nudged the bomb with the toe of his shoe. “Go ahead, Sherlock. Push the button now.”

Instead, Sherlock tossed the remote into the pool. 

“So melodramatic!” Moriarty said. He tapped his foot against the bomb before picking it up off the floor. He turned and stalked toward the main entrance. “Since you’ll not be coming with me, I’m afraid I have no other choice.”

James waved his arms above his head. John flinched, expecting to be shot right between the eyes. Instead, the shiny barrels disappeared from under the bleachers.

Sherlock shoulders visibly relaxed. 

“You have twenty-four hours,” James said, the vest in his hand. “Twenty-four hours to come to me. If in that time you do not, I promise you, John Watson will be dead. Ta, ta!”

John watched Moriarty push the double doors and glide through. Sherlock waited until he’d disappeared before scrambling across the floor and falling to his knees next to John’s head.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, frantically patting John’s chest. He brushed the hair off John’s forehead with his long fingers, then gently cupped the back of his head.

John nodded and assessed himself. He was fine, but Sherlock? 

Sherlock helped John sit up. John put his head between his knees. He was shaking almost as hard as Sherlock.

“You can’t do this. You can’t go with him,” John said.

“I can’t risk it,” Sherlock said. “I can’t risk you.” 

John felt the muscles contract in his arms and his breath hitch in his chest even as Sherlock said it. “Call the police—” John blurted out. “I know you think they’re idiots, but we need help.” 

“The police?” Sherlock laughed. “They are idiots. I wouldn’t trust them to help us here or in London. Moriarty is beyond any puny gang or corner bank heist.”

Sherlock pressed his hand against his back.

“What about that spooky brother of yours?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his upper lip. “He’s tried. We’ve tried. Before I came here, we worked to take him down. He always slipped away. And even if we took him out—he always told me he has contingencies.”

“You can’t go with Moriarty.” John rubbed his hands over his face. “Just leave, get on a plane and disappear.”

“And what would happen to you? No, John.”

John swallowed rapidly, holding at bay the agony and terror of the last half hour. Sherlock’s hand grasped John’s shoulders tight. He let go, then dropped to his knees, his arms dropping limply to the floor.

John rolled closer to him. 

“Come on, Sherlock. We need to get out of here. Let’s go back to the dorm and call your brother.”

“A plan. I used to have a plan. I had leverage. Now, I have nothing.”

John stood and pulled Sherlock to his feet. They staggered two steps forward and toward the door when the door flew open, and Moriarty strutted through it.

“Sorry, boys! I am  _ so _ changeable! It’s a weakness in me, but to be fair, it’s my only weakness. You mentioned leverage? I need a bit of leverage as well—just so you know how serious I am since I’ve tried my best to convince you in other respects.” James nodded.

Moran stepped from behind James, gun leveled. 

John heard Sherlock scream “no” the same second his shoulder flew back. The bloom of red on his shirt threw the switch in his brain, and he knew he’d been shot. It was as if he’d been slammed with a baseball bat, the force throwing him backward into the pool. He saw Sherlock reaching out for him and missing. 

The bullet ripped through flesh so easily. John wondered as water quenched the burning heat if he’d bleed to death or drown. Crimson plumes and agony followed him as he sank to the bottom. He choked on it. The world turned white, then red, then forgivably black. 

———————-

Hushed voices, beeps, and buzzes. John heard the scrap of a chair. He was certain someone was driving red-hot iron spikes into his shoulder. 

John tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn’t obey. In a bed that was all wrong with stiff sheets and a hard pillow. Where was he, and why was he here?

“John?  _ Dear _ _?_”  _ His mom. _

A chair scrapped again. Not home—not the familiar drag of his mom’s aluminum kitchen chairs against linoleum or the hollow sound his desk chair made against his bedroom’s hardwood floor—no this was a foreign, unforgiving sound. Yet there was an overwhelming sense in John’s chest of comfort despite the spike of pain that burst from his shoulder as he tried to sit up.

“John?” But that was her voice. She was the comfort. 

Her feet clomped closer, and he felt the sheet shift against his arm. Those same long fingers that played the piano and pulled weeds from the garden clasped John’s wrist with the same care and tenderness. The mattress dipped as she eased in next to him. She was wearing those damned snowmobile boots, and they thudded against the bed frame. 

_ If not home, where was he? _

He wasn’t sure how long he struggled to open his eyes. 

John heard unfamiliar feet. A woman asked him how he was feeling and called him “Mr. Watson.”

“Do you need something more for the pain?” the woman asked.

_ A nurse? _

His eyes flew open. A hospital? Why was he in a hospital room?

“Thirsty,” John croaked out. His parched throat ached. 

From the tray near his bed, his mom picked up a styrofoam cup filled with melting chipped ice. She raised it to his lips. John took a few tentative swallows. God, it felt good.

Her blue eyes filled with love. “More?” she asked.

John nodded, and she tipped the cup higher. John took a few more swallows of the cold water, and let a few chips of ice slide into his mouth. His mom sat it back on the tray. 

“What … happened?” John asked, sucking on the ice.

“You were robbed,” she back down in the black-vinyl chair next to the bed. She twisted the bottom of her sweater to keep her hand busy. “A man shot you in the shoulder. We almost lost you, honey.” 

John frowned. He didn’t remember a robbery. He did remember Moriarty, the pool, a bomb, rifles trained on him, and ...

“Sherlock?” John asked. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

John shook his head. No. He was fine. Sherlock had to be fine.

The door of his room opened and a man walked in whom John had never seen before, yet the moment his eyes lit on him, John knew exactly who he was. He was as Sherlock had described him: a receding hairline and a walk like he had a “stick up his arse.” John supposed his brain was as tidy as his bespoke suit. His umbrella probably cost more than his mom’s car and he tapped against the tile with the same arrogant demeanor that Sherlock spoke about. 

Why was he here? Where was Sherlock? This didn’t bode well. 

_ “ _ The nurse informed me you had regained consciousness,” he said. “I am …”

_ “Mycroft Holmes,”  _ John said, trying to lift his head off the pillow.  _ _ “We’ve spoken on the phone.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow the same way Sherlock did when he thought John was being an utter idiot. 

“Where is he? Where is Sherlock?” John looked from Mycroft, who stood stone-faced, back to his mother, who covered her mouth with her hand. John’s stomach sunk. She only did it whenever she wanted to hide what she was feeling. 

“Mrs. Watson, may I speak to your son, alone?” Mycroft said.

Her hand slipped down her face as she composed herself, but it was evident to John she didn’t want to leave him alone with Mycroft.

“It’s fine, Mom. I’ll be fine. I have this call button if I need anything.”

“Okay, dear. We almost lost you—I almost lost you,” she said, stepping up beside the bed and grasping John’s hand in hers. “I won’t be far.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She quietly left the room, shutting the door behind her, boots clomping down the hallway.

“Why does my mom think I was robbed?” The pain meds had kicked in. The sharp burn in his shoulder had tuned down to a dull ache, but his head felt heavy.

“We could not divulge the real circumstances of your shooting. It would complicate matters.” Mycroft tapped a newspaper against his leg. 

So, _ he knew but he wouldn’t say _ .

“And who exactly is  _ we _ ?”

Sherlock’s brother leaned his umbrella against the chair his mom had been in not five minutes before. 

“I regret that I can not—only know that it is for the best of all concerned.”

“My mom seemed to be implying that something happened to Sherlock.” 

John watched Mycroft carefully. Except for the muscles tensing around corners of Mycroft’s mouth, his face remained blank. John knew he was pretty fucked up from the painkillers, but he needed to know what happened to his friend. 

“You owe your life to my brother,” Mycroft said. “He pulled you from the pool, revived you, applied pressure to the wound until the ambulance arrived.”

“Ambulance? How?” 

Mycroft continued, emotionless. John hated that Mycroft Holmes reminded him of *John Gielgud. The actor was in one of John’s favorite movies,  _ The Charge of the Light Brigade _ . Mycroft, however, held absolutely no resemblance to Lord Raglan, the character that Gielgud played. Mycroft was neither amiable nor simple-minded, and he certainly wasn’t a poor leader from what Sherlock had told John. Maybe it was Mycroft’s diction. That had to be it. Wasn’t Gielgud in that 50s Shakespeare movie with Marlon Brando? 

“There are eyes all around,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock had also told John his older brother specialized in omniscience. 

Eyes? Ides? The ides of March. That was it! Julius Caesar. Gielgud was Cassius. “You’re kidding. You mean you knew what was happening and didn’t stop it?” John asked. 

“I did not.” For the first time since coming into his room, Mycroft Holmes’ stoney countenance slipped. His eyes drooped and his mouth slackened. “It is my deepest regret that I did not fully comprehend the complexity of my brother’s situation until recently. If I had known, you would not be here and Sherlock ...”

“Don’t tell me Sherlock went with Moriarty?” John’s stomach turned. He’d have thrown up if he had something in his stomach to throw up. 

“He saw no other way to end this. My brother was deeply troubled and often prone to fits of deep depression and irrationality.”

“No.” He couldn’t believe it— _ not that _ . 

Mycroft closed his eyes. “I told him his loss would break my heart.”

“He didn’t. I don’t believe it. You are a stupendous actor, but  _ no _ . Where is he?”

Mycroft opened his eyes. “I can assure you, it is the truth.”

“Right.  _ The truth _ ? That’s the theme of the day? Since I met Sherlock, the truth has been something to omit. I don’t expect that you and your secret society or whatever you are part of is any different.”

Mycroft took a deep sigh then stepped next to the bed. He held out the newspaper he’d had in his hand, but John refused to take it. 

“I wanted to keep it out of the news for mummy’s sake, but I do not have the same influence to sway those in the American press.”

Mycroft set the paper open on John’s lap. John braced himself as he looked at the paper. The headline read: Student jumps to death from Burton Memorial Tower. John’s hands began to shake, and his eyes refused to look back up at Mycroft.

“If you need to see the body to be convinced, that can be arranged—although I strongly advise against it. You need to regain your strength.”

His breathing became labored, he knew he was hyperventilating, but he could do nothing to stop it. He thought he hated the man. He thought he loved him. Now he’d never know which way he really felt, or could feel.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. 

“Mom?” John called.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *So call me crazy but Mark Gatiss has always reminded me of John Gielgud.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to hotshoeagain’s beta. I appreciate her fact checking, suggestions, and edits.

The smell of death was still in the cabin. But it was when Sherlock spied the Jack Daniel bottles under the trundle bed that he knew the cause. It took time and despair to drink one’s self to death. There were more than a dozen of the bottles in evidence. Among them against the wall was a solitary unopened bottle of Jack. Sherlock climbed across the bed. It was easy enough to reach it between the mattress and the wall. 

He felt for the seal on the neck of the bottle with the pad of his thumb._ Broken _. Therefore, Sherlock deduced, not stashed beneath the bed for later—instead it had fallen behind the bed—left behind by the old fisherman who had previously rented the cabin. 

The deceased, drunken old fisherman. 

He rolled back off the bed and, with a twist, landed flat-footed onto the pine floor. Foot covering was a must unless one was a masochist who loved large splinters. The boards groaned in disappointment as he walked to the window in his shoes.

Sherlock pushed back the dusty curtains. The small, square cabin windows allowed for little light even on this bright January morning. Sherlock had washed them as best he could with old newspapers and vinegar, but the morning light still struggled to shine through the grime that remained on the outside. 

Sherlock had spent the first few days cleaning the cabin. It wasn’t because he hated disorder. He could live with disorder, and dirt. It was a fact that he rarely worried about germs. After all, he had spent many-a-night with the homeless on the streets of London. This, however, was different. One expected unsanitary conditions in a flophouse but not in a rental log cabin overlooking a lake. 

Did these people know nothing of salmonella or listeria? Well, the old man hadn’t died from that. No. It was in that rocking chair. A heart attack, or more accurately, a broken heart.

It came as a blessed relief to deduce the old fisherman who’d stayed here before. The old man had left more than Jack Daniels: stacks of magazines, a beat-up fishing hat on the fireplace mantle, his tacklebox and fishing pole. His thermal underwear. 

Before he passed, the man had stayed here for months. But it wasn’t his first stay. The magazines told the story. They had the same mailing label on them to Irene and Samuel Stone, 12467 East Ave. D, Hickory Corners. He’d come here for many years. It was his place to get away from his wife. But after she had passed away, it was a place for his regrets. 

What Sherlock did not want to deduce was what the crusty tin pots and sticky cast iron pans had once contained. Most of them Sherlock refused to even touch. The cleanest he had scrubbed until his knuckles bled so that he could use them, but only after he’d scoured the sink with those hideous Brillo pads. And the yellowed terry cloth dish towels were literally stiff! He boiled them in the large kettle. At least that was clean. 

And heat? Since renters in the winter months were rare, heating the cabin obviously was never thought necessary and only an afterthought because of “deer hunting season.” The old cast iron stove hooked up to the propane tank worked, but the antiquated propane heater was useless. He stared at the gloomy walls with soot stains on from his first night here. Sherlock had to pull a dead racoon from the red sandstone chimney of the fireplace before he could even start a decent fire. 

At least he didn’t have to chop wood. Someone already had. He was certain it was Samuel, the old fisherman. He’d chopped away to tire himself out and put away his loss. The man had cut enough for two cabins for the winter and stacked it neatly between two hefty elm trees a few yards from the back door, and what was called an “out house.” 

He’d suffer this. He’d suffer anything. John was home. Safe.

It could be worse. He could be in another country instead of a few miles away from John. One thing he didn’t want to be was a man like the old fisherman. He didn’t want to become a man filled with regrets and what-ifs. 

He worried about John constantly. Sherlock’s only connection to the outside world to find out was a twenty-year-old black telephone with a frayed cord. 

Over the last weeks, the phone had remained silent for the most part and only rang three times. Each time it was Mycroft. He hated touching the phone. Sherlock held the phone’s receiver an inch from his face each time. He’d rather it never rang, in that case. He only wanted to know that John was healing and well.

Sherlock decided to put the bottle of Jack Daniels to good use. He unscrewed the phone’s mouth and earpiece, then took them to the sink and doused them in the whiskey. After that he wiped down the rest of the handset with his saturated handkerchief. 

Sherlock put the phone back together, then sat on the only safe spot on the couch where springs wouldn’t reach out and bite. 

One second later, the shrill ring of the phone made Sherlock wonder if Mycroft was somehow watching. He detested answering it.

“Is he well?” Sherlock asked. No pleasantries. It was Mycroft. 

“One would think he would be over his infatuation, but he seems to carry with him a romantic notion that you killed yourself jumping off the campus clock tower to spare him,” Mycroft answered. 

“That couldn’t be helped.” Every time Sherlock bumped the cord, the phone crackled and cut in and out.

“As is missing Christmas in Devon. Mummy will be peeved I am not in attendance.”

“Don’t pretend that you want to be there. I know the truth.” 

“I would much rather be in attendance there. I do not like Michigan.”

“I don’t like it that I’ve been out of cigarettes for three days. At least you have electricity and access to the world. I have no one to keep me company but racoons and squirrels and nothing to read except Playboy magazines and these atrocious Reader’s Digests.”

“I should think you might learn a thing or two from those.”

“What? ‘It pays to enrich your word power’ or ‘Humor in Uniform’?”

“I thought you rather liked men in uniform.”

Sherlock bit his tongue. Maybe if John wore one. Truth be told, he’d rather see him out of the uniform. 

“What did you have for dinner? I had to eat tuna, beans, and peaches from cans.”

“That’s not what I hear, dear brother. I was told you’ve learned to fish.”

“I hardly call lowering a fishline through a hole in the ice, learning to fish! They simply take the bait because it’s moving. They’re more bored than I am.” 

“It should supplement the beans nicely.”

“Oh, shut up. I have to drink tea from a tin cup.”

“_ Shut up _? Dear, dear. I never expected to hear that American slang from your lips. What would mummy say?”

“You wanted to wisk me off to parts unknown. Mummy wouldn’t approve of that either.”

“I should think a remote cabin on a lake in the woods is preferable. All this for John Watson.”

“It’s necessary that he thinks I am dead. James will be watching him. Nothing can happen to him.”

“Stay away from him as planned until it is time to spring the trap.”

“And when will that be? It’s not like I can just walk out of here into civilization. I don’t know how I could do much else.”

Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock did enjoy parts of Michigan. While John Watson was the main draw, he enjoyed the wilderness walks. While Sherlock had used his mind palace at night, his days were filled hiking through snow.

Sherlock had spent most of the cold January days walking in the woods. He’d kept a diary of the speed of which different animals decomposed in the natural environment of Michigan, but every time he went back to check, the animal’s carcass was either picked clean or dragged off to be eaten elsewhere. He rather liked this part of Michigan and its outdoors far better than what Ann Arbor offered. Ann Arbor didn’t hold a candle to his London, but he preferred this wild side of Michigan to the tame English countryside.

He’d also looked for signs of Mycroft’s men. It seemed they were spying on him from a distance. He’d found no tracks in the snow anywhere near the cabin.

“It could be far worse. You could be dead. John Watson could be dead or there could be bears.”

“Sadly, there are no bears. If there were, they would be hibernating,” Sherlock paused. He’d been waiting for Mycroft to tell him. It seemed Mycroft enjoyed drawing it out. “What do you hear from John?”

“He is healing well,” Mycroft sighed. “What did I tell you, little brother?” 

“Please do not go there. I hate it when you get on your high horse.”

Sherlock began jiggling the cord on purpose. He didn’t want another lecture on how caring wasn’t an advantage, even if in essence it was true. Look what caring had done to John! He’d walked into all this because of Sherlock. He’d cared and it got John strapped to a bomb and shot in the shoulder. He’d almost died in Sherlock’s arms. As long as he lived, Sherlock would never forget the panic he felt as he held John, or the words John had said. 

“Sherlock? Are you there?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock jiggled the cord a few more times for good measure, then sat the phone back down on its cradle.

_ “I love you.” _That’s what John had said.

_ And I didn’t return those words. I should have told him, I should have told him. _

Sherlock paced the cabin floor. It was his habit of late. James and the others had tried to turn John against him. James had tried to manipulate John’s memories and thoughts and feelings. Most likely using suggestions in the beginning with Mary and Moran. Then hypnosis. Sherlock realized it the moment he saw James’ tapping. He wondered how much and how often they had tried to alter John’s memories, to manipulate him. 

Had John been with them enough to influence him? From what Sherlock had learned, some subjects can have their perceptions altered in the blink of an eye, others not at all. Sherlock was certain that it had not worked as planned on John. He had a stubborn streak—the tenacity and will of a bulldog. John would never let go of what he believed if he knew in his heart he was right.

Sherlock hated being stuck in the cabin, but at least he wasn’t far from John._ “Only eight miles as the crow flies,” _John would say. But following the hodge-podge of back country roads, it was over three times the distance. 

It might as well be halfway around the world.

Mycroft had hesitated to tell Sherlock how hard John had taken his suicide, but Sherlock had pressed Mycroft to do it. He had thought about calling John a number of times if only to hear his voice, but that would put John in grave danger. He knew Mycroft had this phone bugged, and it was for good reason. If Moriarty or his men called, it was best that Mycroft knew immediately. As for John’s home, he knew his brother had done the same, and most likely Moriarty would find a way to try and trace any call placed to John’s home. Mailing a note to John was equally chancy. One could always intercept letters. He’d thought of disguising himself and contacting Mrs. Hudson to get a note to John when he’d realized Mycroft had left Sherlock a snowmobile. But the arse made certain there was very little petrol for it— only enough to leave this place in an emergency. Blast Mycroft! Didn’t he understand the necessity of telling John the truth?

He had promised John he wouldn’t lie to him again. This was the worst lie possible.

Sherlock had spent long days devising how to defend himself if Moriarty found out he was alive and decided to ambush him. He was on a wooded hill above a small private lake. A map Sherlock had found in one of the adjacent cabins referred to it as Riley Lake. Other small lakes were near— all of which were on state land. The roads surrounding this were one-lane and state maintained. A forest of white pines planted in neat rows surrounded the lake. 

Sherlock spent much of his free time walking the woods. He came upon only two other homes; the rest of the area was a forest of large hardwoods, brush, and swamp land. Hunting season was the end of November, but Mycroft had cautioned him that poachers might be about. He came across a few deer trails but no sign of human footprints and only a few snowmobile trails that the snow quickly covered over. He hiked to a dirt road that had been plowed recently, then turned back. He understood his boundaries.

After pacing the floor after hanging up on Mycroft, Sherlock still hadn’t found clarity of mind. _ A walk in the woods will clear my head _, he thought. He was beginning to enjoy the walks. He could observe rabbits, squirrels, and deer, and only yesterday he’d spotted a fox. 

He put on his coat and boots, a stocking cap and warm gloves. 

He ventured off to the south side of the lake. The sun had disappeared and heavy clouds had taken its place. He was sitting quietly now, watching through the white pines. Birds sang. He wished he knew the names of the songs. Tree limbs accompanied them as they creaked. 

Sherlock stomped his boots before he began his climb up the sharp snow-laden hill covered in oaks, elms, and what Sherlock noted were large Sassafras trees. Sherlock worked his way to the top and followed his usual route. He stopped at the top where an old stone fence that marked a property line abutted a row of pines. 

It was near the pines that Sherlock found the boot prints. They were fresh, and the tread clear. It was beginning to snow and the wind was picking up. On the top of the hill, the wind whipped around him. Sherlock followed the tracks down the other side of the hill through the pines, leading to a marsh below. At the edge he found it: a trap. Someone poaching? Sherlock didn’t know the laws regarding this. It might be perfectly legal, but since this was state land, Sherlock doubted it. Also, it hardly seemed sporting in his mind. He found a stick and sprung the trap. 

He decided to take the trap with him. It might afford him a bit of entertainment, and he liked the idea of foiling the trapper’s plans and saving some woodland friends. The snow whipped around him. It was coming down harder, and he knew he’d have to make good time to follow them before they were covered by the blowing snow.

Sherlock felt a bit of pride that he was able to procure eight traps. 

Deciding he had found them all—at least in this area—he carried them with him back to his cabin. He was almost certain that Mother Nature would cover his trail, but to be safe, he decided to cover them. He cut a nice fat white pine branch and swished the snow around, wiping away his tracks. He also took the long way home, sweeping evidence away as he went. Sherlock hooked his arms through the chains of the iron traps. They swung and clanged together echoing off the hills as he carefully avoided the drifts.

As he stomped the snow off his boots before coming into the cabin, he dropped the traps. He grabbed a stack of firewood he kept next to the door, setting it just inside the door against the wall to let it dry. He brought the traps in last, sitting them just in front of the woodpile against the wall. He pulled his wet stocking cap off his head and shook what was left of the melting snow off of it. He picked up another armful of wood and stopped to look out his back door before shutting it. He chuckled, realizing that erasing his footprints had been unnecessary since Mother Nature had already covered his tracks up to the cabin.

Although all that remained of his roaring fire was embers, the cabin was still warm. He chucked in a few seasoned pieces of firewood, then stoked the embers with the poker until it sparked. 

At least the sink had running water. He filled the old chipped enamel kettle with the water, then set it aside to strike a match to light the temperamental propane stove. He wouldn’t miss this at all, he thought, setting the kettle on for a cup of tea.

Sherlock picked up one of the traps and carried it up to the rocking chair near the fire. The traps were older and rusty, but well-oiled. Sherlock pried open the trap’s jaws. It took a bit of hand strength and would be much easier to set using a foot. The springs were taut, but it wasn’t that difficult to wrap the chain around it to set the trap. The center was a circular flat pan. When an animal stepped on it, the trap was sprung and clamped around the animal’s leg. Probably some larger fur-bearing creature such as the beautiful fox he’d seen. The person who set them intended to capture them for the fur. As Sherlock turned the trap in his hands, he couldn’t help imagining that these were means to a gruesome end. The animals snared would endure a painful and panic-filled wait until they died of either exhaustion, blood loss, or hypothermia. If any were still living when found, Sherlock doubted its end would be any easier—possibly clubbed to death by the trapper. He was happy that he hadn’t found any animals in the traps himself.

He decided he would monitor the area and see if he could spy this man who set the traps. If this was a poacher, taking the traps would most likely deter him. If he was not, then Sherlock decided he could at least make the area a bit safer for his furry friends. 

Sherlock recalled how easily the branches had been snapped in half from the force exerted by the jaws. Even a human with heavy boots stepping into the trap would hurt, and it would certainly slow someone down. The whistling of the kettle brought Sherlock out of his thoughts. Sherlock set the trap on the floor and got up to make the tea. 

Sherlock smirked as he poured the hot water over the teabag into his tin cup.

He had a lot to do. He looked at the time. She should be at the Truck Stop about now. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Can I speak to the person in charge of this shift?” he asked in his best midwestern American diction. The damn cord jiggled and static crackled.

A moment later, he heard her “Hello?”

“Yes. I would like a hot beef sandwich with extra gravy to pick up in an hour,” Sherlock said, still disguising his voice. 

_ “What! Is this? It can’t be!” _came the startled voice back. 

Of course he couldn’t fool her. 

“Is this some sort of sick joke or is this a ghost?”

“No … no joke … I am real, I am alive. I assure you that I am not a ghost.” Sherlock held the phone to his head as still as possible.

“You have a lot to answer for, young man.” 

He could hear her sniffing.

“Yes, I know that, and I shall explain in due time why I had to fake my death and go into hiding. Until I can sit down with you, I must take you into my confidence and ask a favor of you.”

“Just knowing you’re still alive eases my soul. And don’t think I am not going to make you sit down with me and explain what’s happening.” 

“Yes, until then, there is something you must do. Someone you must see and give a message to.”

“It wouldn’t be that young man of yours, would it?”

“What young man?”

“I read the papers and can read between the lines well enough. The one you saved.”

“Yes, that’s the young man.”

“What do you want me to tell him?”

———————

John loved and hated being home. It was nice having his mom dote on him the first two days. After that, John wanted it to end. 

That, and he still couldn’t believe that Sherlock was dead. There hadn’t been a funeral here. Nothing. Of course they’d take his body home to London. He’d read the papers again and again, still not believing a word. There had been no sign of Professor Moriarty or Sebastian Moran or Mary Morstan. Except for the painful scar in his shoulder and the empty space in his heart, it was as if it never happened.

“I wish I could have seen the body. At least then I’d know,” he’d told his mom. 

“John dear, you weren’t in any condition to view the body. You know that.”

His mom and sister were confused at why John didn’t believe it. 

“Sherlock could do these magic tricks. Sleight of hand. He was so clever.”

His mother gave an understanding nod.

“Why would he do it?” John asked.

“We never truly know what another person thinks—what makes a person feel so low, that they only see death as the answer.”

John shook his head. He didn’t ask why Sherlock would do it because he didn’t understand, he asked because he didn’t think Sherlock did it. Either he wasn’t dead or someone killed him. Sherlock didn’t jump. John didn’t believe that for a minute. 

“Sherlock fooled me once. He could fool me again. He’s brilliant. He could fool everyone.”

“Oh, John,” his mom said.

He could tell she didn’t want to leave him to go to work. 

“You need to go, Mom. I’ll be fine.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Call me if you need anything.” 

Every day the mailman disappointed him. As the postman’s car drove away, John would walk out to the mailbox, expecting a plain envelope with a cryptic message inside. None arrived. Ma Bell disappointed as well. Each time the phone rang, John rushed to it, expecting to hear that deep baritone on the other end—or at least the silence or a hint or something.

John wanted a sign, any sign.

John ticked off the calendar. It was Wednesday, January 24, and he had nothing to do, nowhere to go and nobody to see. His heart was broken and his head ached. He’d taken a break from classes for this term. He wished now that he hadn’t. What did he have to look forward to?

John waited today just as he had every other day since he came home. He stood and stared out the living room window at the rural mailbox in front of the house. Like every day before it, the mailman drove up, opened the door and slid in the mail. But today at the same instant the phone began to ring. 

_ Choices. Too many choices _. John bit his lip and answered the phone. 

“Hello?” he said. “Watson residence. John Watson speaking.”

“Hey, John. It’s Mike.”

“Oh, hi, Mike.”

“I was wondering how you were.”

“Doing better,” John lied.

“I was coming home this weekend and wondering if you’d like to go out for a beer or two?”

John sighed. _ Might as well say yes _ , he thought. _ If I don’t, he’ll harp on me. I can always change my mind later and make some excuse _. “Sure.”

“Cool! I’ll give you a ring and let you know when.”

“Thanks.”

“John, I know it must be awful getting robbed and shot, then on top of it all, losing your roommate. But you’ve got friends who care.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Thanks.”

“Bye, John.”

“Bye, Mike.” John put down the phone then went to the closet and put on his coat and boots. 

The wool hat and mittens his mom had knit itched, but they kept his ears and hands warm. The snow was coming down in big, wet flakes. 

He opened the mail box to find the Consumer’s Power bill, a postcard reminder from Dr. Tom the dentist reminding his mom of her February appointment, and a letter from Publisher’s Clearing House stating: “You may already be a winner.” 

Nothing else.

As John turned to go back up the sidewalk to the front door, a blue El Camino rolled into his driveway. A woman with long black wavy hair and big bug-eyed sunglasses sat behind the wheel. She looked vaguely familiar to John. He cautiously walked up to the car. After everything he’d been through recently, he was leary. She rolled down her window. 

“Hello, young man,” she said, and held out her gloved hand. “We have a friend in common. I know you’re not in the habit of getting in strange cars and galavanting about with people you don’t know, but it is most important that you hop inside and take a spin with me.”

“You’re right. Who is this person?” John didn’t know if he dared to hope, especially since this could very be someone Moriarty sent. He wondered where in the heck Mycroft’s men were who were supposed to be watching the house.

“He said you’d be suspicious,” she said. “He told me to tell you this: ‘Don’t be angry. He will make it up to you. He said that he’ll make you Cambell’s tomato soup served with Ritz crackers, but this time he’d make sure not to burn his hand.”

“I knew it,” John said, racing around the car and opening up the door. “I knew he didn’t do it!” he repeated as he sat down in the white bucket seat next to the woman. She pushed the sunglasses back to get a better look at him and smiled. John smiled back. She had the most dazzling smile, and her blue eyes twinkled. He realized as she pushed the sunglasses back that she was wearing a wig. She was older than his mom.

“You are certainly a good catch,” she said as John shut the door. 

“Do be a dear. Sherlock said you need to bring a few things with you. I have a list.” She handed it to John.

“With me?” John asked. “You’re taking me to him?”

“Of course, dear.” 

John scanned the list. Rifle, shells, rope, hunting knife. _ Shit _ , John cursed under his breath. _ Sherlock must be expecting trouble. _

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” John said, opening the door.

“Oh, and he said to tell you to bring the soup and crackers since he doesn’t have those. He also said something about cigarettes. I wasn’t sure if you had any of them on hand, so I picked them up for you. They’re all in the knapsack behind the seat.”

“Thank you.”

John raced into the house and into the den. His hands shook as he unlocked the gun case. He used to trap shoot on weekends and was pretty good, but with his shoulder, there was no way he could shoot the shotgun now. But he also had his father’s old Colt. That he could shoot. He used the pistol plenty of times with his sister at the firing range in Jackson. His mom hated the thing and almost pawned it off last year, but Harry wouldn’t let her. 

John retrieved some rope from the garage, then paper-bagged it along with the ammo, pistol, and knife, then rolled it all up in an old blanket along with his granddad’s Remington and said a silent prayer that Sherlock knew how to shoot it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Reader’s Digest,** the largest circulating, long-running magazine in the world, still has the two regular columns Sherlock mentions to Mycroft in the story. "It pays to enrich your word power" and "Humor in Uniform” were such popular features in the periodical that books were dedicated to them. The word power column continues today and is themed. These quizzes in a multiple choice version format select words to help elevate your diction. Humor in Uniform includes readers' contributions of jokes, anecdotes, cartoons, quotes, and stories from men and women in the armed forces. I should think that John might prefer “Drama in Real Life” survival stories from Readers Digest.
> 
> **The 1978 blue El Camino ** [](https://imgur.com/4mnWWTB)
> 
> **Brillo pad** or steel wool soap pad for scrubbing pots and pans.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. Real life getting in the way (a lot of us have had this happen lately). Here it is!
> 
> Thanks so much to hotshoeagain for the thorough beta!

John liked Martha Hudson immediately. 

“I should have realized who you were,” John told her. “Sherlock has spoken fondly of you, and as you already know, he doesn’t speak fondly of many people.”

“That boy! He seems to find trouble, and he’s pulled you into the fray. Don’t mind me,” she said, reaching over and giving him a fond slap on the shoulder. “I may be a bit gray under this wig, but anyone with eyes in their head can see his appeal with those changeable eyes and high cheekbones. He is adorable even when he’s grumbling. Don’t we all love mystery and intrigue?” she asked, and gave him a quick wink. “I certainly do. This disguise is a bit much, but he insisted I take precautions so I wouldn’t be recognized and followed. He deemed it necessary, but frankly, it’s becoming impractical to wear these sunglasses—too overcast a day.”

“I think you’re safe to remove them,” John said. 

Martha slipped them off, flexing her hand afterward. “My rheumatism is acting up. I believe we’re in for a big storm. Could you be a dear and see if Sherlock has any more of those herbal soothers when you see him? My supply is getting rather low.”

_ See him! I’m going to see Sherlock!  _

Martha raised an eyebrow, waiting for John to respond.

“I’ll be sure and ask,” he said. He could imagine what herbal soothers possibly contained. “Not sure when he’d be able to get them to you, though.”

“That’s fine. What I have will hold me for a bit. Oh, be a dear and help watch to make sure we aren’t being followed. Although I don’t think it’s possible,” she said, swerving around a junk car parked at the side of the road. 

John turned his head. It was old and looked abandoned. 

He may like Martha, but he didn’t, however, like how she drove. As she fish-tailed down the country road, John struggled to prevent his shoulder from slamming against the door. 

John continued to watch the rear-view mirror and turn to look through the back window. The car they swerved around didn’t move. Thus far, it had been one of the few vehicles he’d seen that wasn’t parked in someone's driveway. He hadn’t seen a soul following them. He expected some of Mycroft’s men to at least try, which made John think that they knew where he was going and didn’t need to follow.

“Sherlock rented this car for me,” Martha continued, turning onto West Michigan Avenue. A station wagon passed them, traveling the other direction. “I’ve never rented a car before. I never knew there was such a thing. I really do like it. It suits me.” 

John blushed when she winked at him. Again. 

“You are adorable,” she said. “I see why Sherlock has taken to you. He told me you’re studying to become a doctor!”

It warmed John inside to know that Sherlock thought of him at all. For him to speak to Mrs. Hudson about him must mean something.

The road was filled with potholes. John was beginning to wonder if Martha was aiming for them. John was congratulating himself for rescuing his shoulder for the third time when his head lifted to look out the windshield.

“Christ Almighty!” John exclaimed and grabbed the dashboard. A fucking snowplow was roaring toward them.

Martha laughed as she swerved around the plow like she was some Indy 500 driver. As they slid around it, the plow slung dirty snow, salt, and gravel across the windshield.

“Yahoo!” she said, hooting like a cowboy riding a bronco. “I think I may buy one of these!” 

“Could you possibly slow down?” John asked. He wasn’t sure if his heart was hammering in his chest because of the crazy ride or because in a few minutes he was going to see Sherlock again.

“I’ve been told to do that my entire life. I’m not about to start now,” she answered.

She turned left onto Hayball Road. John grabbed the door handle for dear life and said a small prayer. Thankfully, the prayer worked. No more close calls and she wasn’t spoiling to become the next Mario Andretti. He continued to check for anyone following, but nothing. They were on a dirt road when it began to snow. 

“I think this is it,” she said, slowing down. 

She turned right into a one lane road that looked to John like a driveway. 

“It hasn’t been plowed very well. I do hope we don’t get stuck.” 

John nodded. He really didn’t want to get out and push.

“Are we close? Maybe you should drop me off here where the road vees off. You can turn around.”

“I think you are right. I’ll let you off here. He said to take the left here,” she said, slowing the car and coming to a stop. “Follow along this drive, and he will meet you.”

John swung the car door open to a cold blast of wind which almost blew the door shut. John pushed back, keeping it ajar with his leg out the door as he collected the necessary blanket bundle along with the care package that Martha had made for them.

“Thanks for everything,” John said, clutching the rolled-up blanket to his chest. “Please be careful.”

“No need to worry. I’ve learned how to take care of myself over these years.”

John shut the door and watched her safely turn around before heading on his way down the path.

—————————

Sherlock waited behind an old oak tree. It was the largest one Sherlock had seen in these woods, and he surmised it had seen at least a hundred seasons. The majestic tree still had a few lingering acorns on its branches and was the likely parent of many of the small oaks that grew near. Hiding behind it was a necessary precaution. Mycroft knew what he was up to, and Sherlock knew that Moriarty would not be far behind. The trick was to be ahead of them both.

The mighty oak stood ten yards from the side of the drive that wound through the hills and about a half of a mile from where the rental cabins were near the lake.

What if John wouldn’t forgive him? What if he’s waiting behind this tree for no one?

This lane to the cabins wasn’t plowed. Anyone coming this far back had to walk. Martha would take him as far as she could. At this moment, John could be walking toward him. 

_ If John came.  _

Damn! He’d hike through a blizzard for a cigarette—no five blizzards and a tornado. His hands shook from cold and nerves while he waited and hoped.  _ John would come. He would. _

His heart pounded in his ears as he waited to see the one person on this planet that he longed for. He never knew what real longing was until this. He’d walk to the South Pole for John Watson. 

His teeth were beginning to chatter, and he was hopping in place to get warm, but he remained behind the old tree waiting. 

His eyes caught the ugly yellow and blue stocking hat bobbing up and down. Attached to that monstrosity of a hat was the most spectacular sight: John Watson slowing his pace in indecision where the road split. 

Sherlock sprung out from behind the tree. “John!” he hollered.

John stopped, struggling with his load, his bright-blue eyes catching Sherlock stumbling forward. John’s cheeks were pink with wind-burn, but it was his lips' slow turn up that made Sherlock relax his tight shoulders. 

“H-here, I’ll take those for you,” Sherlock stuttered and rushed up to John. He reached out for the blanket of bundled weapons, but instead he got an armful of John Watson.

The blanket and knapsack dropped into the snow between them. 

“You fucking asshole,” John said, voice cracking but his smile still there. “I don’t know what to do, punch you or kiss you.”

“If you’re asking, I’d prefer the kiss,” Sherlock smirked. 

John’s eyes misted over and one of his ugly mittens cupped Sherlock’s chin while the other cupped the back of his head. In three blinks, John mashed their mouths together. 

Sherlock didn’t bother to suppress the rumble resonating from the back of his throat nor the tears falling down his cheeks. Suddenly, Sherlock no longer felt cold. With John’s mouth devouring his, Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if the snow was melting beneath his boots.

John blinked back his own tears. “You giant dick. Don’t you ever do something like this to me again, or I swear, I’ll ...” 

Sherlock waited for John to finish his words. They didn’t come. Instead, the snow did. The sky opened and the snow swallowed them. 

“I think we should get back to the cabin,” Sherlock suggested. He bent down and picked up the blanket and knapsack.

“Lead on.” 

This was not the “winter wonderland” Sherlock had read about. The wind didn’t just howl, it screamed through the trees. He could see two feet in front of him. He couldn’t hear John unless he yelled to him. In this blizzard, panic hit him. What if once they got inside the cabin, John came to his senses and realized that Sherlock wasn’t what he wanted. 

“Follow in my tracks,” Sherlock said he led John to the door. Sherlock was glad he had taken the time to tend to the fire before he left. He handed John the knapsack and bundle. 

Sherlock shut the door. No more howling wind, just the crackling fire and a toasty cabin. 

“So,” John turned to him, pulling off the ugly hat, “Nice place you have here. Haven’t seen a wooden door with a wooden sliding latch like this since I was a kid. It’d take a bulldozer to break through this door.”

“Rustic yet functional. The cabin is highly defensible. Note the small windows have internal shutters that latch with timbers as well.”

“I see … so what’s the plan?” 

John’s disheveled hair was distracting. Sherlock licked his chapped lips. The only plan Sherlock could think of at that exact moment was to get John into the trundle bed.

“Does it have to do with why I had to follow in your boot prints up the door?” John asked, slapping his matching ugly mittens against his coat.

Sherlock blinked. “Exactly. I have set traps.” 

Sherlock stomped snow off his boot as John removed his coat. The trundle bed would have to wait.

“Traps? As in snares or are we talking ones with sharp jaws?” John asked and handed Sherlock his coat. 

Brushing off the snow first, Sherlock hung their coats up on the hooks next to the door.

Sherlock grabbed the knapsack, hoping John had brought rope. Indeed he did! With the rope from the boat, this would be more than adequate.

“The sharp jaw variety,” Sherlock said. “And with this rope you’ve brought, we could set a couple of snares and still have more than enough to secure them when done.” 

Sherlock's eyes lingered on John’s hands as he picked up the quilt and rolled it on the table. A rifle, ammunition, but also an added surprise of a handgun. John picked it up, weighing it is his hand. 

“It needs cleaning— so does the Remington. I haven’t done it in a bit.” John sat down at the small table. “Do you have an old towel or rags I could use to put under this to clean it?”

“About all you’ll find in this cabin is rags,” Sherlock said. “I’ll get some out from under the sink.” 

Sherlock grabbed an old towel and tossed it to John, who was standing at the old wooden table and field-stripping the Colt. Watching John handling the gun sent a rush of heat from the top of Sherlock’s head to his toes. John took the hunting knife and sliced the towel down the center. He set one half of the towel aside, and the other he laid down on the table and set the parts out. He sat down and began cleaning it. 

“Never skimp on a cheap cleaning rod. It can ruin the barrel,” he said as he slipped the cone-shape guide over the rod and pressed it against the muzzle to prevent the rod from scraping the inside of the muzzle. John hands practically caressed it as he pushed the rod through. 

What a way to warm up or get aroused. He needed a distraction or else Sherlock thought he might come in his pants watching John clean his handgun. 

“I hadn’t expected this much snow,” Sherlock said. “Does it often come down like this?”

“Yeah, sometimes.” John looked around the cabin. As he scanned the room, he actually smiled. “We’ve had more,” John said sincerely, applying more solvent to the end of the cleaning rod and working it back inside the barrel. “I see there’s a radio. Does it work? Any batteries?” 

Sherlock acknowledged the beat-up transistor radio on the counter. He decided he needed to do something with his hands as well. He walked over and turned it on to static. He began turning the dial, looking for a station.

“As you can hear for yourself, it works. Mycroft made certain there were adequate batteries. Initially I had tried to find some sort of distraction, but the only stations it picks up this time of day do not play classical.” Sherlock stopped on a station playing some sort of horrid polka. 

John barked a laugh at Sherlock’s face. “Keep searching for something different. I’m not into Laurence Welk. Maybe something that has some news and weather reports. The paper predicted only a few inches of snow. I’d like to know how much we’re in for.” 

“If I need to know the weather, I can look out this window,” Sherlock said. He continued to fiddle with the knob. 

“Right … to see if it’s snowing ...”

“No … at the thermometer and barometer hanging just outside the window.” 

“Smart ass.”

“I can only pick up WLS in the evening. The music is wonderful.”

“That’s because it’s out of Chicago. They play all night and turn up the signal at night. Leave it there. I like this song.”

“Actually, it is  because the reflection characteristics of the ionosphere are better at night.”

“Yeah, right,” John said, polishing the muzzle with a soft cloth and humming along to Rod Stewart’s singing “you’re in my heart, you’re in my soul …”  _ Highly distracting. _

Sherlock picked up the knapsack and began to rummage through it. Food! “Hungry? There are sandwiches. And Ritz crackers.”

“Keep digging … I brought more than that, and Martha Hudson packed some ham sandwiches and cookies for us.”

“Thank, God. Something that doesn’t come out of a can!” 

“Well, there is tomato soup.” John closed one eye as he finished reassembling the gun. And set it aside and picked up the rifle. “As soon as I finish, we can eat.”

Sherlock frowned. He usually didn’t care much about sustenance for his transport, but he needed to do something. John had the rifle and was preparing to clean that as well. He needed a distraction. Maybe if he cut the rope? Sherlock picked up the large hunting knife off the table. He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I know it’s a bit much. I’ve never used it except to sharpen sticks to roast marshmallows and hot dogs on a campfire,” John laughed.

“Disgusting!” Sherlock sat down at the table opposite John and began to cut the rope into lengths sufficient enough to bind arms and legs. 

“Hmm. Don’t knock it unless you’ve tried it.”

“There’s more than enough to make a couple of snares,” John observed. “One near the large white pine near the woodpile would work.”

Sherlock nodded. John meticulously took the Remington apart. It was akin to a sex act. Sherlock was beginning to sweat.

“And the other attached to the elm next to the kitchen window,” Sherlock said.

They worked quietly. Sherlock concentrated on his simple task but his eyes kept lingering on John’s hands. It wasn’t long before Sherlock had the last piece cut and was looking for something else to keep him distracted when horrendous music belched out of the radio. What was that noise? The lyrics were nonsensical—something about “she’s a brick house.” What does that even mean? 

He rushed over to the radio and turned the knob. Carly Simon’s sultry voice filled the room singing “Nobody Does It Better.” Now, Sherlock understood those lyrics completely. 

“Ahh, this is the station I listened to the other evening. Better,” Sherlock said. “Easy listening. It’s not classical, but a fair compromise, and they have news.”

“It’s good,” John said. 

“I’ll keep there unless they play ‘Good Morning star shire,’ then I’m turning it off,” Sherlock snorted.

“That’s star _ shine _ , Sherlock. It’s not about hobbits.”

“That does make more sense.”

“Would you quit walking around in circles and sit down!” John said.

Sherlock sighed and plopped himself back in the chair across from John. He folded his hand on the table. At last. John was almost done.  _ Almost. _

He had that look in his eyes. Sherlock had seen it before over the years— from Mycroft, his mum and dad. He was in for a scolding.

“This doesn’t mean I’m good with what you did,” John said. “I’d like to know the plan this time.”

Not a scolding then. 

“I understand, John. I expect Moriarty already knows where I am and that I have contacted you … and he knows you are here with me. He will be hoping to surprise us, but he will be suspicious. He and his associates will also be cautious.”

“Associates? You mean hired assassins.”

“My brother’s men aren’t far. They’re in a house that abuts the state land across the lake on the highest hill. It’s part of an old apple orchard.”

“Hmm. So they can’t really see the cabin—”

“One listening device in this cabin. The empty cabin nearest ours has a camera.”

“So, I really should know where you set the traps. After we’ve had a bite and warmed up, let’s say we go out and you show me where you placed them and maybe set up a few new ones with the rope I brought. Then after ... “ John's eyes flashed over to the bed.

Sherlock felt his entire body ignite with the look. 

At least putting back on boots and gloves to go out would work up an appetite.

It turned out John was more than helpful with the snares. When done, they had them well camouflaged with snow and branches. 

“I hope we’ll see Moran hanging by his heels,” John said, stomping his boots as they came back into the cabin.

“I’d rather see Moriarty,” Sherlock sighed. John nodded, pressing his eyes shut and shaking the snow out of his hair. 

Sherlock decided, what the hell, and leaned closer. His hand carefully wrapped around John’s waist and John let him despite cold hands.

John stripped off his ugly mittens. He giggled as he slipped his cold hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock didn’t mind. Yes, they were ice cold, but he still groaned as John brought their mouths together. John tipped his head for the perfect angle. Sherlock’s heart skipped and stuttered in his chest as cold nose touched cold nose. 

It was a relief to have John’s hands warm up and suddenly shift around him and hug him close. Sherlock loved John’s curious hands and the warm expedition of John’s fingers exploring each freckle and rib, leaving Sherlock breathless. Between the fireplace and John’s hands, Sherlock’s body flushed hot with need.

God, there were so many things he wanted to say, needed to tell John. Things he felt inside but his mouth couldn’t speak. But John kissed him again and again, inching them closer to the cot. John seemed to sense Sherlock’s loss for words.

“You okay?” John asked.

“It’s just that … I am sorry. And I, John … I …” Before Sherlock can finish, John’s teeth, nip at Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“I know. I feel the same way.”

John’s answer was to kiss him hard, tongue probing inside Sherlock’s mouth and tracing red-hot circles on the roof of his mouth. His fingertips drew the same circles over his belly, sending shivers up Sherlock’s spine.

As the back of Sherlock’s calves hit the cot, John's weight pressed them both onto the mattress.  The heat of their bodies pressed together sent sparks igniting in Sherlock’s brain.

With a moan, Joh n pulled away from Sherlock’s mouth. John rolled off too soon. 

“We need less clothes,” John gasped. “Now.”

Not really a suggestion for Sherlock, though. Before John finished speaking, Sherlock stripped his own shirt off and began to shimmy out of his jeans. John grinned wickedly over while he undressed just as fast. Before Sherlock could throw his pants on the floor, John’s mouth covered his again.

His cock was hard and leaking, but John still ignored it. Instead, John rolled onto his side and began running his hand up and down Sherlock’s chest. He pinched his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, hard enough to make Sherlock yelp in surprise.

“Okay?” John asked. 

“More than okay.” Sherlock's eyes flashed, letting John know he was fine for more. 

Sherlock couldn’t help admiring John. And his eyes traveled from his thick jutting cock, to his flat tummy, defined chest with sandy hair and to his shoulder and the new scar. Breath caught in his throat as he gazed at it. It was the bitter reminder of what had happened at the pool. His cock softened and his eyes teared up at the horror of that night.

“Hey, hey, hey,” John cooed, pushing a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “It’s fine. I’m fine now.”

“May I touch it?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded. 

Sherlock tentatively reached out, his fingers tracing the puckered edges. He leaned in and gently kissed the points of the star-shaped scar. As his stubble brushed across it, John shivered. 

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered.

John didn’t answer. Instead, he smiled and took Sherlock’s hand in his, kissing each knuckle. He leaned over and his lips gently pressed to Sherlock’s chest. His tongue slid around the pink tip of Sherlock’s nipple and he … _ God, he was actually sucking it!  _

The connection between his chest and brain and between his legs make his cock immediately spring back to life. He felt his face heat up, and it was all Sherlock could do not to cover his excitement.

A deep rumble erupted from inside him that he couldn’t seem to control either, nor did he want to. John’s teeth, tongue, and lips played with his nipple, suckling it. How did he not know this felt so incredible? He didn’t try to stifle the small pleading whimpers that came from inside him nor try to stop his hands as they played with John’s sandy hair. 

John’s other hand wandered over the sharp tip of Sherlock’s hipbone, then slipped around his waist. He deftly skimmed his hands down the slope of Sherlock’s bottom and squeezed.

Sherlock was shocked at how deep his desire for this man ran. He’d never felt this type of pull. John Watson was necessary like oxygen. 

John’s mouth popped off his nipple as he stared down into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock instinctively rutted up. Between the heated gaze, and the cool air on the wet throbbing skin, John took pity on Sherlock’s need and slipped between his knees. John rested back on his heels with both hands pressing and pushing against Sherlock’s thighs.

Despite his urgency, John’s pale, blue eyes reflected a softness, and Sherlock’s heart ached inside him. He never thought ... he never wanted to think … someone would ever accept him. So many had wanted him, but never as he was. In the end, they’d pushed him aside. That may be why he had stayed with James far longer than he should have. But what Moriarty felt for him wasn’t the same. It wasn’t love; it was possession. In the past, Sherlock had longed to find some sort of relationship where he was accepted for who he was. All the times he heard those cutting words “impossible” and “unlovable,” he was reminded of the absence of love. Those two cruel words never left them—they were carved into Sherlock’s memory. 

But John accepted him, all of him. His faults. John had rejected those labels. John helped heal those hollow parts of himself. As John's mouth reverently took Sherlock’s cock down his throat, the act became a symbol of not only acceptance but affirmation. John loved every piece of him. If he hadn’t known already that John Watson was the one, he knew it now.

“John, oh, John.”

John took him into his throat deeper, letting Sherlock’s cock slide back wet and slippery with John’s spit. John’s head bobbed up and down his length, taking in more of Sherlock with each bob of his head. Sherlock was close, so close. 

Sherlock groaned when John’s lips popped off the tip of Sherlock’s cock.

“John!”

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said. He crouched between Sherlock’s legs, then winked. John slinked up Sherlock’s body. John’s long bangs hung around his face and framed a soft beautiful smile, glowing, and all for Sherlock. 

He _ was _ the one. John Watson. _ He makes me right,  _ Sherlock thought.

Balancing on his elbows, John bent down for another kiss. The weight of him, solid and sure, pressed into Sherlock. As John’s lips touched his, John’s cock slid against Sherlock’s. The moan from John as they rubbed together, thrilled Sherlock.

“I have some lubricant here,” Sherlock said, eagerly reaching under the pillow.  “How do you want me?” Sherlock asked. “On my stomach?”

“God, no. I want to see your face.”

Sherlock placed the tube into John’s hand. Before he slicked himself, John smeared it on his shaking hands. Feather light touches tickled Sherlock between his arse cheeks and under his balls, and Sherlock tipped his hip up to let John’s fingers glide and explore. John’s eyes remained locked on Sherlock’s as he traced around his pucker and slipped his finger deep inside and began to push them in and out.

“Harder, deeper,” Sherlock breathed. 

“Oh God,” John gasped. “You are so tight.”

“Fuck me,” Sherlock begged. 

Sherlock found that keeping his eyes open was impossible. He _ wanted _ to watch John, but his lids refused to remain open and fluttered shut. Everything narrowed to his breathing and the push of John’s cock breaching him. Sherlock squeezed the breath from his lungs through his nostrils. His heart hammered and crashed against his chest.

John began to thrust into him, his breath ragged and raw. 

“Oh … God.” 

Farther? God, John pushed in farther. 

He opened his eyes to John, watching him. His face was, what?  Pleasure? Pain? Perfection?  Sherlock’s brain could not make sense of what he saw or felt. It was all sense and nonsense.

John was pounding into him with all the anger and fear of the last days. Through this, Sherlock pushed against him, hips thrusting and rushing to meet him. Sherlock’s entire body throbbed with ecstasy. Every nuance of skin, every pump of his heart, his veins surged with the heat that pulsated from John’s pummeling. 

When John stretched up to touch his lips to Sherlock’s, he murmured, “John” and repeated it like a mantra.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” John breathed back. He reached down and grasped Sherlock’s hard and dripping cock. He began to pump and rub his thumb in circles over its head.

Sherlock’s brain exploded. Sparks of red pinpricks of heat fired inside of his skull. Sherlock was certain the cascade was turning his brain to mush.

As John shook and came, his body collapsed on top of Sherlock’s. 

“God,” he mumbled quietly into Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock managed to move his hand to the nape of John’s neck. It was sweaty and slick and incredible. 

“I’d pull out, but I don’t think I can move,” John groaned.

“Mmm. Stay there. It’s perfect. You are perfect,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want to move ever again.”

“Me either.” 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long they’d slept together when John woke him.

“Did you hear that?” John said. “It’s thunder.”

The sound of rain began pounding on the cabin roof, then a loud banging. 

“And that’s hail!” John added.

John sat up and grabbed his jeans from the floor and scrambled to put them on. Sherlock did the same.

Sherlock moved to the window over the sink where the thermometer hung, and scratched his head.  _ That couldn’t be correct. _

“John, there’s a torch next to the woodpile, could you get it?”

“Hmm, a torch? I mean, wouldn’t this flashlight be better?” John said, picking it up and flipping it in his hand. “I know this cabin is primitive, but it’s not like it’s the Middle Ages.” 

“That  _ is _ a torch.” Sherlock smirked.

“Oh,” John said, tossing it to Sherlock. “Here.”

Sherlock took the flashlight and flicked it on. The beam shone through the window onto the barometer. John stood next to Sherlock and looked over his shoulder as they watched the needle drop. 

“That’s not normal …” John said. 

“Not even for Michigan,” Sherlock concluded. The hail had now turned to snow, and the wind howled and shook the timbers in the cabin. On his family’s trips to Swiss Alps, and even on a few occasions in London, Sherlock had seen snow blowing sideways but never with this intensity. 

They both stood awe-struck by Mother Nature’s madness unfolding.

“I would estimate that the gusts are more than 70 miles per hour,” Sherlock said. 

“Jeez,” John said, pressing against his back. “Maybe more. I’ve never seen anything like this.” With John so near, it became hard to breathe. “Martha said we were in for a storm—something about her rheumatism acting up, and you getting her some more herbal soothers.”

Just as Sherlock turned off the torch, his laugh caught in his throat. A flicker of light broke from behind the blizzard. John blinked next to him. 

“I think I’ll turn on the radio and see if there’s anything on …” John began as he switched the radio on next to the window.

Sherlock heard the WLS broadcast warning about the blizzard but paid no mind because of what he heard John say.

“Bolt the windows and grab the guns—” John said. “We have company.” 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been so patient waiting for the final chapters. You may have noticed that I added that there will be another chapter after this. You won't have to wait but a few days for it. It's all written. I had such a long chapter and decided to break it in two.
> 
> Big thanks to hotshoeagain for getting to this chapter so fast and furious! I deeply appreciate you. Only one more to go...

“The phone is still dead,” John said, putting the handset back down on the cradle.

Sherlock nodded. “Expected.”

It was dark inside the cabin—only flickers from the fireplace illuminated the room, sending Sherlock’s long shadow across the pine planks of the floor. He moved the rocker closer to the fire, then walked over to the kitchen window where he stood watch. He frowned as he peered through the slats. 

“One of our snares has proved successful. Someone is swinging from the tree,” Sherlock said. 

Stepping up behind him, John wondered how Sherlock could see anything through that abyss of darkness and whirling snow. He turned to watch Sherlock’s frown turn to a smirk. 

The old radio came back to life with the crackle of static. They’d tuned it into WLS in hopes of hearing more about the conditions outside. 

_ “It’s the blizzard of the century, folks! Expect no let up with the snow increasing in intensity into the morning and blizzard conditions. Possible wind gusts of 90 mph.” _

Of course the greatest snowstorm of the last hundred years was going to hit this area tonight! John cursed under his breath. He continued to squint out the window to catch a glimpse of what Sherlock saw. Then he spotted it: a small moving black void within the mass of white. 

“From the size and shape, it is Mary Morstan,” Sherlock said with more than a little venom in his voice.

John didn’t like her much. She had aimed a gun at them both, but that didn’t mean he wanted her dead.

“We should probably go out there and cut her down,” John said. 

“I think not. They are most likely waiting for us to come out.”

“We can’t just leave her out there to die from hypothermia”

“Why not?” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow

“It’s not right, that’s why not.”

“They would not do the same if the positions were reversed.”

“My point exactly. We are not them.” 

“I should think that is obvious, but it doesn’t preclude the fact that they may be waiting for us.”

John turned to Sherlock who was biting his lip. “Maybe the other snares actually caught a few more of them. Don’t you want to find out?”

“In that?” Sherlock gave an incredulous snort. 

John didn’t want to go out there any more than Sherlock did, but they couldn’t leave them to die. Sherlock may say he doesn’t care now, but guilt was insidious. He would regret his actions one day. Maybe not in months or weeks, but years. 

Neither of them could live with that hanging over them. 

“Then forewarned is forearmed. Get the rope and the rifle,” John said. “I’ll get the Colt. Like it or not, we’re going out. And don’t try to tell me you didn’t plan on doing this. Why the hell else would you have cut up the rope?”

Sherlock grumbled about “saving the unsavable” as he took off his robe and dressed.

He put on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Go around and cut down Mary, I’ll check the snares,” he said.

He waited for Sherlock to argue with him, but he didn’t. It seemed he was fine with it. As predicted, no one jumped them the moment they opened the door. Instead there was a wall of snow as high as John’s head. 

“It drifted against the door,” John observed.

“Brilliant deduction,” Sherlock said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“We’ll need to climb over it, or go out a window.”

“Over we go.”

Sherlock gave John a leg up, which pushed the snow out and inside the door, making a way for Sherlock.

John slid down the drift through the deep snow. He struggled to stand and got his feet under him, when bang! Sherlock slid into him, knocking him back down into the snow face first. Christ this was next to impossible to stand in it. It was almost to his waist.

The wind howled so loudly that he could hardly hear Sherlock yelling in his ear.

“Go around the cabin! Follow the side of the house!”

At least John felt a bit of satisfaction that he was right no one would be out here waiting to ambush them. He held out his mitten and helped Sherlock up, then made his way around the cabin as Sherlock instructed. 

He blindly struggled through the snow. It wasn’t as deep as he turned the corner to the side of the cabin facing the lake. At least he had the frame to follow. He hoped Sherlock could find his way through to the traps and back to the door.

He found her, Mary Morstan, hired assassin and part-time lab assistant, her limp body whipping back and forth in the wind. She hung by both legs. He thought he might be too late. Her eyes were open and lifeless, her black hood had fallen off her head into the drift below her.

He pulled out his knife and cut her down. She was limp in his arms. He disarmed her first. One gun was buried in the snow beneath her, another tucked in her jacket and a small blade in her boot. John slipped one gun in the back of his jeans, and the other gun and knife in his coat. He checked her pulse. If she was faking, it was an academy award performance. He pulled her along. He quickly flicked the flashlight beam on and off directly into her eyes. Not faking and not dead. Getting her back into the cabin would be tricky. He slung her over his shoulder and struggled through the drifts until he got to the cabin door. He had to push her to the top, then he slid down, following her.

Inside the cabin she had landed in a heap. He checked her pulse again. Slow. She was too cold. But in the light of the fireplace, he realized the problem was more than just hypothermia and hanging upside down. An ugly gnash was on the back of her head. When the snare snapped her up, her head must have slammed into the tree trunk.

Sherlock wasn’t back, but that wasn’t a surprise. He had the traps to check.

He secured her with the rope Sherlock cut, then set her nearer the fire to warm and began to make his way back out to Sherlock when another body slid down the drift through the doorway into a pile at his feet. The angry man’s arms and legs were bound up neatly, and his left boot was torn along with the flesh beneath it from the trap that had caught him. 

He was not happy. He spat at John between shivers. John was disappointed it wasn’t Moran—just some hired henchman of Moriarty’s. 

“Well, I hate to say hi and run, but my friend needs me out there. Until later, okay?” John said, pulling him by his wounded leg as the man screamed. Probably not a good thing to do, but he was here to kill them, wasn’t he?

“This should slow you down if you try to escape,” John said as he secured him with rope through the aluminum loop on the kitchen table leg. 

“Where the fuck am I going to go?” he asked, nodding to the door. “I’m not going back out there.”

John’s head popped up as another minion slid through the door. This one was roped up like a steer and pissed as hell, but otherwise looked unharmed. 

“Hmm. Sherlock seems to be adding to the collection.” John pulled out his Colt from his waistband and aimed at the man sprawled on the floor. His arms were bound to one leg, but his other leg was free. 

John hoisted him up by grabbing under his arm and pulled him across the floor. “I’d ask you to take a seat, but I don’t want you to get too comfortable,” John said, kicking an old aluminum kitchen chair out from the wall. 

John flipped the chair on its side. With another section of rope, he secured his prisoner’s bound hands and leg flush to the chair’s back and rail.

John stood up straight. He really needed to check on Sherlock. It’s not like any of his captives were going anywhere. No way they could untie themselves. The only other way would be to drag the kitchen furniture with them. Impossible to get over the snowbank and out the door.

As John put on his coat and stepped to the edge of the doorway, a maniacal giggle echoed into the cabin. 

John cringed. He knew that insane laugher. He hated it with every atom inside him. _ Moriarty _. It meant trouble with a capital T. John slipped his Colt out and aimed at the door. 

Two pairs of legs poked through at the top of the snowbank. He knew two of those long legs. As they slid through, he saw that the other pair belonged to Sebastian Moran, and that he had a gun pressed to Sherlock’s temple. Despite it all, Sherlock was rolling his eyes at Moriarty’s cackling from the depths of the blizzard behind him. 

John steadied himself, swallowing back the panic that threatened to overtake him. The two came to an abrupt stop on the floor near John’s feet. John kept his gun trained between Moran’s eyes. 

Sherlock had a gun to his head! Any wrong move on his part and … shit! John steadied his gun and clenched his jaw. 

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “I told you we should have let them freeze to death,” Sherlock grumbled. “I never should have released his foot from the trap.”

John noticed Moran’s boot where it was torn and bloody. 

“I’d put down your gun,” Moran said. “I would love to have an excuse to put a bullet into his head.”

“He’s bluffing. Shoot him.” Sherlock’s tone was bored, and he gave a long sigh. This was in high contrast to his eyes: the cabin light from the fire melded the green and gold melded together, making his eyes glow with excitement. 

“Try me!” came Moriarty’s sing-songy voice from outside. 

John chewed his lip. That Sherlock never quite looked like he belonged in this world didn’t help at all. Moran hated him. Moriarty coveted him. The other people in the room didn’t even matter. What did matter was that John loved him, and he couldn’t risk having Moran put a bullet in his head. He didn’t think Moriarty would allow Moran to shoot Sherlock, but he couldn’t chance it. Mary began moaning—someone who definitely didn’t count. Still, he didn’t want her dead. Another moan came from her. Must be she was finally regaining consciousness. 

“Do _ not _put down your gun,” Sherlock said, then winked one of his unearthly eyes at John.

_ What the fuck is he up to? _ John wondered. 

Moran roughly shoved Sherlock toward the fireplace, hobbling behind him. His boot left bloody puddles across the floor. 

John licked his lips and bared his teeth, but he never took his sights off Moran’s head. Sherlock's eyes shifted pointedly toward the table. 

“Drop it,” Moran repeated to John through his own gritted teeth.

John sighed. He didn’t want to set the gun down. He was trusting that the fiery glow in Sherlock’s eyes meant that he had a plan. Maybe he shouldn’t. John slowly lowered the Colt and set it down on the opposite end of the kitchen table from where his hostage was tied to the leg. John let his hands flap to his sides afterward.

“That’s better, but I’m still fucking cold,” Moran said, jerking Sherlock toward the rocking chair. His fingers dug into Sherlock’s shoulder as he forced Sherlock down to his knees in front of the chair. 

“Stay there and don’t move!” Moran barked at Sherlock when he tried to struggle up. “If you don’t, I’ll put a hole in the brilliant brain.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Sherlock said.

Moran’s eye twitched at the comment, which made John feel even more nervous. Just what John needed—an agitated and wounded assassin who was wondering why Sherlock was reacting like a toy pistol was pressed to his head, not a Webley. 

Moran scooted the rocking chair closer to the fireplace with his leg.

“I will love watching you suffer,” he said, thrusting the muzzle into Sherlock’s head for emphasis. Moran finished punctuating his thoughts by sitting down hard in the old rocker. The poor chair creaked and the floorboards groaned in complaint.

“Just shut the fuck up, both of you.” Moran’s eyes turned briefly to the door where cold air whistled in. “All clear! Come in boss!” Moran hollered. 

With his arms spread wide, Moriarty slipped down the snowbank, shouting, “Yipee!” 

The wind blew in like it was heralding a king, but Moriarty looked more like a child-prince as he slid down the sharp snowbank. He hit the floor and bounced to his feet like an olympic tumbler sticking his landing. Snow flew across the room as he shook his head. 

“My, my! One, two, three, four, five!” Moriarty exclaimed and waved in John’s face. He strolled around the room. “Your guests have all arrived! All here and accounted for! Hmmm ..._ surprise, surprise _ , what have you _ done _ to dear Mary? That’s no way to treat a guest! I never took you for a brute, Watson.”

“I’m not. Her head hit the tree. Happens when you’re careless and step into a snare.”

Moriarty pressed a finger to his lips. “Oh, dear. Too bad. How are your ankles, Seb? Lucky for you I had my lucky pocket knife and was there to cut you down. Then you had to go step in that horrid trap! I should have left you hanging for your stupidity, but you seemed to have redeemed yourself. Look at how you’ve tamed Sherlock, sitting passively at your feet like a domesticated dog. Give his head a pat!”

Moran snarled, but obeyed and awkwardly patted the top of Sherlock’s head, while his other hand nudged his gun so the muzzle scraped the back of his skull. 

“I may just bite off his fingers if he doesn’t stop,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, Sherlock, Vatican Cameos! Don’t you remember how much you desperately need me?”

Moriarty nodded to Moran, and Sherlock stood back up on shaky legs. His motions were no longer fluid and graceful. His body jerked and stuttered. He reminded John of one the zombies from _ the Night of the Living Dead _. 

“Need you ...” Sherlock whispered. 

“Yes, you only need me. Now be a good boy and tell John Watson that you no longer need him. Vatican Cameos, remember?”

Sherlock turned to John, eyes vacant. “Only need James.”

“Now be a dear and pick up the gun.”

John's heart hammered in his chest as he watched Sherlock shuffle up to the aluminum table and reached for John’s Colt. With the gun in hand, he turned and faced John. His face remained a stony mask. He raised the gun and pointed it in John’s direction.

A sudden bang came from the floor beneath the rocking chair where Moran sat. He still held the gun on Sherlock, studying his every move. Then another thud against the wall near the fireplace. 

Sherlock's head turned toward the noise, eyes blinking rapidly. The banging continued from inside the walls and floor, and Sherlock seemed mesmerized by the commotion, eyes and gun following the sound. It moved along until Sherlock’s eyes rested back on John. He raised the gun slowly. 

John stared at him. He didn’t believe it. Sherlock was pointing the gun at him! Then the son-of-a-bitch winked. 

_ Sherlock winked. _

A new loud thud came from beneath the old floor planks with enough force to rattle the pans hanging on the kitchen wall above the stove.

Sherlock’s mouth curled up.

Moran’s eyes narrowed as he shifted nervously. “What the fuck was that?” he demanded.

_ Curious _ , John thought. _ If all five were accounted for as Moriarty said, who was banging away? _

On his heels, he spun forty-five degrees, the gun steady in his hand. He raised an eyebrow as he pointed the gun at Moran’s head. 

“It’s the ghost of Raymond Handy,” Sherlock spoke stiffly. “He expired in that very chair you are sitting in. Very bad luck to sit there.”

Sherlock was back. If he ever left. John wasn’t quite sure. His Sherlock doesn’t believe in luck or ghosts, but it was immediately evident that Sebastian Moran did believe.

“Or it could be a ravenous bear,” Sherlock added.

“Ha, ha, ha,” Moran spat back.

John felt a bit of relief when Moran turned his gun away from Sherlock. He’d rather be in the sharp-shooter’s sights than have Sherlock in danger. 

Another loud thud echoed into the room, surprising Moran. He jerked back in the chair too far, the rockers tipping back. John had to respect Moran’s skills. Despite almost flipping over backwards, he kept his gun trained on John.

Suddenly the walls of the cabin erupted as if they were alive. Hollow thuds shook the walls, making the pots and pans hanging on the walls clang and bang. As the rattling became rhythmic, the pattern progressed around the cabin until the clatter centered on the wall near their bed.

As Sherlock held his gun on Moran, it seemed to be a stand off. 

“Hmm. Disturbing his final resting place made Handy cross,” Sherlock said.

“Or it could be that black bear,” John added.

Moran’s eye twitched more, but he refused to stand up. Instead he held the gun steady on John while he forcibly rocked back and forth, sending blood curdling squeaks echoing through the cabin. 

“Must I do everything,” Moriarty said. He reached into his coat and pulled out a Baby Browning. “Drop your gun, Sherlock, or it will be my distinct pleasure to end John Watson’s life.”

Sherlock hesitated, then lowered the gun. 

“No, don’t.” John shook his head in disbelief as Sherlock placed the gun back on the table. 

“I’ll watch these two, Seb. Untie our two friends and go out and shoot whatever or whoever is knocking on the walls.”

Moran favored his leg, but he and the men obeyed with only a moment’s hesitation. John didn’t blame them for not wanting to go back out into the blizzard. 

Before disappearing into the darkness, Moran motioned for John to sit in the vacated chair against the wall. Then he was out the door and into the howling storm. They were alone with Moriarty and Mary. Two against two, and Mary wasn’t moving much.

All it would take was one second for Moriarty to look away. The pounding had stopped. John knew he might not have much time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few end notes on this chapter. The first is that there really was a [Great Blizzard of 1978](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Blizzard_of_1978). I've included a link about to Wiki, but I was actually around during that time in Michigan and stuck in my apartment for a week with my new father in law. We got 40 inches of snow in less than 24 hours and had wind chills below -60 F. The drifts covered one story houses, and in the ten story apartment building I was living at the time, we couldn't get out the front doors where it had drifted. 
> 
> As for driving anywhere, it took a week to dig out. My apartment building was on Michigan Avenue, which is state emergency highway that is always one of the first cleared. It wasn't cleared for 4 days, and Snowmobiles were the only emergency vehicles for days. Other back roads were impassable for over a week.
> 
> One other bit of trivia on this blizzard, I picked the radio station [WLS ](https://www.wlshistory.com/)because it was the first station to accurately predict this storm's intensity.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all reading during this time, thank you dear readers to all for being patient at the long wait between a lot of the chapters. Part of the problem was real life at the end, but in the early chapters, it was finding my way. Now that it’s done, I feel sad leaving these two. I’ve never written a uni-lock before this one, and it was a challenge. I learned a lot from this experience. In those first chapters where I struggled with balancing characterization and background, I often felt like quitting. I did find that once I was two-thirds through writing this, that I finally had a handle on where I was going. I’m not a writer to completely abandon a work (looks guiltily at None So Blind), so I pushed on. I am glad I did not give up.
> 
> Special thanks to hotshoeagain for beta'ing most of the story and to recently folded for helping so much with the first chapters. As a writer, I deeply appreciate the friends I've made who beta. They are indispensable: they give find plot holes, errors, typos (especially my silly mistakes). They patch us up and kiss my story and make it all better. Most of all, they tell it like it is. If it doesn't work, I want to know and make it work. I have been fortunate to have beta's that tell me that. Thank you. You have encouraged and sustained me.

“That wasn’t kind of you, pretending to go along with me.” Moriarty sneered at Sherlock, waving his pistol at John as if he were an orchestra conductor. 

“Your mind control doesn’t work. It never did,” Sherlock sneered back.

“Take a seat,” Moriarty said. “Hands out, where I can see them, or I’ll put a bullet into his tiny brain.”

“I would ask what you plan to do with us, but that would be dull. I already know,” Sherlock said. He yawned and stretched. The top button of Sherlock’s shirt came undone, and Moriarty responded by licking his lips. 

John had had enough of Moriarty’s leering at Sherlock. He sat down in the vacated rocking chair and leaned back hard. The chair gave a groan.

“Sit still!” Moriarty ordered. “Hands in your lap.”

Sherlock yawned again. It was low and like velvet. As his arms shifted up, another button magically came undone. Moriarty actually gave a sigh at the sight of the exposed clavicle. Sherlock raised his brow and licked his lips in return.

Disgusting as it was, John knew Sherlock was drawing Moriarty’s attention away from him. It took less than a second: John stealthy reached behind him as Moriarty leered and practically salivated over Sherlock’s milky skin. He slowly drew out Mary’s Smith and Wesson. He liked the shape of the nice semi-automatic in his hand. Sure, it wasn’t as fancy as Moriarty’s pocket pistol. John smirked. Maybe he’d take that, too. 

Not wanting another standoff, John instantly decided to rush him. He leapt out of the chair. Unfortunately, the traitorous chair gave John away. Or maybe the ghost of Handy did. 

Moriarty spun around and fired. John laughed out loud when he missed by a mile. Moriarty may be a fucking genius, but he wasn’t worth a shit with that little pistol. But to be fair, Sherlock also tripped him. 

John planted himself on top of Moriarty while Sherlock stood over him. 

“We need to shut the door,” Sherlock said. He kicked the Baby Browning, sending it spinning across the floor. “All kinds of vermin keep getting inside.” 

Moriarty was flat on the floor with John’s knee shoved in the middle of his back. 

John decided that sitting on top of Moriarty was almost as uncomfortable as the rocking chair.  _ Almost. _ He held the gun on Moriarty and watched Sherlock get to work as he grabbed the snow shovel next to the door. With determination, Sherlock began to shovel and pack the snow flush to the frame so he could push the door shut. John made sure that Moriarty kept his face on the floor. He wasn’t allowed to admire the view of Sherlock bending over as he shoveled fast with precision and efficiency. Although the snow was heavy, and he had to raise it up and over the mound, he cleared it fast. Unfortunately, no more buttons came unfastened, which made John certain that Sherlock had somehow managed to intentionally pop them loose. 

John shifted around when suddenly the banging on the walls began again.

“What is that?” Moriarty whined beneath him. 

“Raccoons,” Sherlock said, as he tried to shut the door. “Almost there. Just a couple of more inches to shovel. They live under the floor. When disturbed, they’ll get inside the walls and scratch around.”

John got off Moriarty. “Awfully loud for raccoons.” John picked up his Colt off the table and tucked Mary’s Smith and Wesson in the back of his pants. He took a seat back on top of Moriarty.

“Well, not for a family of racoons.” Sherlock had the door shut and bolted it with the solid wooden latch only moments before a different pounding sound came from the door.

“Shouldn’t they be hibernating?” Moriarty complained.

“They don’t actually hibernate. Thank Moran. He woke them with all that rocking,” Sherlock turned to John. He glanced at the gun in his hand and grinned. “All that racket roused from their slumbers.” 

“Will you two stop that incessant flirting,” Moriarty spat out, his face smashed against the floor. “I detest it.”

“I suppose we shouldn’t leave them out there,” John said.

“ _ Oh, no _ ! We’re not going out there again,” Sherlock said. “Let them take cover in one of the other cabins. If they get stuck up a tree or in a trap, let them freeze to death. We have enough to worry about for the next few days with Moriarty and Mary Morstan. Who knows how long it will be before someone digs us out. Do you even realize how much more it’s snowed out there? But of course you do! It’s Michigan!”

“I knew you weren’t seriously contemplating a life in the wilderness with Grizzly Adams,” Moriarty said as he struggled under John’s weight. “Will you make him get off me?”

“What are you talking about? Stay right where you are, John. And who is Grizzly Adams?” Sherlock lit an old kerosene lamp and walked over to the bed. He leaned over, his wet jeans hugging his thighs. He set the lamp on the table next to bed and opened up an old trunk beside it. His head disappeared inside as he began sorting through it. 

“Not moving an inch. And I am not the Grizzly Adams type. I did kinda want to be Kit Carson when I was younger though …” John stared down at Moriarty. “Second thought, he’s kind of lumpy. Could you hand me some rope? My butt is getting sore.”

Looking up from his rummaging, Sherlock grabbed a couple of lengths of rope off the bed. He tossed them to John.

John stuffed his Colt next to Mary’s gun and began to bind Moriarty’s hands. 

“Ooo,” Moriarty giggled, “you can fit a lot in your pants! I bet you’ve had plenty of practice!” 

“Will you shut up!” 

John became distracted by the light of the lamp as it illuminated Sherlock. His hair was a mass of mad curls that seemed to glow and his cheeks were flushed and windburned. Sherlock continued to dig through the trunk’s contents until he pulled out what looked like a ham radio.

“You mean we had that the whole time?” John bit out in frustration.

“What fun would that have been? Admit it.” Moriarty taunted. “You’ve had a grand time. And it’s not over yet!”

John jerked the rope tighter and knotted it, then began wrapping the rope around his ankles.

“Stop that!” Moriarty barked. “You’re cutting off my circulation.”

“Good,” John said, sitting back on his heels and admiring his work. Moriarty looked as helpless as a lamb. 

“Loosen these at once,” Moriarty demanded. Damned if he didn’t bleat like a lamb, too.

“You’re right, James! This is fun,” Sherlock laughed. 

While he could live without the memory of a gun pressed to the back of Sherlock’s head, John had to admit to himself he hadn’t had this much fun or excitement in his entire life. Or at least since that anonymous fuck at the rest area on I-94. 

“I will make certain both of you pay for this with your last breaths,” Moriarty said. “I will savor every second watching you both suffer.”

“Sherlock, throw me a rag.”

“I won’t stop. I won’t quit. Not ever. Never.” 

“Really  _ dirty _ rag.”

Sherlock carried the ham radio under his arm over to the counter by the sink. He smirked as he tossed John the soggy dishcloth. 

“You aren’t!” Moriarty sputtered. “You won’t!”

“Oh, but I am,” John said. He stuffed the cloth into Moriarty’s mouth. 

Moriarty pretended to retch. John rolled his eyes at him. “Not going to work. You can choke on your own vomit as far as I’m concerned.”

He set the radio on the counter and dug a new package of batteries out of one of the kitchen drawers. 

Sherlock squinted his eyes through the shutter slats of the window. “I expected Mycroft’s men long ago,” Sherlock said. 

“I knew Moriarty would cut the phone line. They should have at least had the foresight to know this would happen.”

“This storm came out of nowhere, Sherlock. No one knew it was coming.”

“So it seems. I should be able to contact them with this.” He turned the ham radio over on the counter, and using an old butter knife, he unscrewed the back. As he turned the knife, he stuck out his tongue.

John decided to put more wood on the fire. He chucked a few split logs in. Sparks flew out as Moriaty’s muffled expletives filled the cabin.

John noticed Mary moving as Sherlock snapped the batteries into place and turned on the radio. 

He checked her. Her eyes remained closed. _ Faker _ , John thought. Her breathing was steady. He pried her eyes open. Pupils were reactive, her pulse strong. She’d be fine, if fine meant she’d be spending the next ten to fifteen in the Indiana Women’s State Penitentiary. 

Sherlock plugged a microphone in. John wasn’t sure where that had come from. The crackling sound reminded John of his father’s old ham set and hot summers in the basement decoding Morse code signals. Sherlock’s forehead creased in concentration as he carefully tuned the dial. The creases vanished the moment he landed on the channel. Sherlock began tapping in Morse code on the microphone with his index finger.

The response was immediate. The radio crackled and beeped in a familiar pattern.

“Useless, that’s what they are. They have snowmobiles and are still on the other side of the lake.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What buffoons. They had no idea Moriarty was here.”

“At least they’re coming. I mean, I kind of like having him stuffed and hog-tied, but I don’t really like his company.”

“I will be happy to be rid of him as well.”

“I wish there was a way to thank Rocky Racoon and his family,” John said. He stood and stretched. He walked over and checked Mary. Her eyes were open. “Thirsty?” he asked her. She nodded weakly.

He got an old tin mug from the cupboard and turned on the faucet. 

He sat her up to give her a few sips of cold water from the tin cup. At least she remained quiet. He eased her back down to the floor and turned to Sherlock. 

“Hungry?” John asked.

“Not particularly. But you are. Tomato soup?” His eyes reminded John of sparkling gemstones,and he wondered how in hell he ever became so smitten with Sherlock.

John chuckled at his thoughts and shot Sherlock a shy smile. On the floor, Moriarty gave a huge eye roll. 

“Sounds perfect for this unforgiving Michigan blizzard,” John sighed. Like he gave one fuck what Moriarty thought. 

“I expected them to be banging at the door trying to get back in by now. What do you suppose happened to them?”

Sulfur filled the air as Sherlock flicked the wooden match against the counter. It sparked and it lit up his face. He had a boyish grin as he quickly turned on the gas to light the stove. The flame and his warm smile were a welcome contrast to the wind howling outside. 

“They may have found another trap or became turned around,” John said.

“Or planning how to get in. I would assume they’ll try to break the windows.”

John cleared his throat and slipped his Colt out from the back of his jeans. His hip rested against the counter, and he crossed his arms. From this position he could see the entire cabin. Sherlock struggled with the old can opener, but finally pried the soup can open and poured the contents into the pot. Mary was awake and watching while Moriarty frowned and mumbled into the rag. John let his left hand keep the gun at ready with one eye on Mary and Moriarty as Sherlock stirred the soup with an old wooden spoon. 

Martha’s cheese sandwiches went perfect with the Campbell’s soup and Ritz crackers. As he slurped down the hot soup, John kept an eagle eye on the two. John was finishing the last bite of his cheese sandwich when a flash of lights danced across the walls through the slats in the windows. The roar of snowmobiles let them know that Mycroft's men had arrived. 

“Hopefully, they’re chasing down Moran,” John said.

“More likely Moran is chasing them,” Mary said.

Sherlock refused to look at her. Instead his eyes never left John’s. “Even Mycroft’s men should be able to catch him. They have an advantage. With that leg wound, Moran won’t be moving fast, and he’ll be easy to track in the snow.” Sherlock got up from the table and walked to the door. “There. The snowmobiles have stopped. In five minutes we’ll hear a knock.”

John knew he’d be correct, but it wasn’t five minutes— it was three.

“Definitely one of Mycroft’s men.” Sherlock lifted the wooden slat that barred the door. 

Flashlight beams seeped from the top of the snowbank. “We have them, Mr. Holmes! We’ll be taking them with us. How are you? You have anyone else in there with you?”

“As a matter of fact, we have two.”

He walked past John and reached down and took the rag from Moriarty’s mouth.

“You have no right to take us anywhere.” 

“I believe we do,” Sherlock said, and crossed his arms. “While gun laws are rather relaxed here, as a Green Card holder you shouldn’t have these guns. However, I know that people in these parts of Michigan are serious when it comes to trespassing and assault.”

“I’m the one tied up!”

“Vatican Cameos? Really? You thought that would work?” Sherlock's body immediately went rigid and his eyes vacant.

“It was a pretty convincing act,” John said, laughing.

“Thank you, John.” 

Two of the men slid inside. They brushed off the snow.

“Ah! James Moriarty,” said the one with the black hood. “In a neat package.”

“Take him. He won’t shut his mouth. And her? She’s in need of medical attention, but I wouldn’t give her any.”

“I don’t think she’ll be getting any tonight,” said the other man. “We only have a basic med kit at our headquarters.”

“Headquarters? You’re referring to the cabin across the lake?” Sherlock scoffed.

The man with the hood lifted Mary up from under her arms.

“Careful,” John said. “She’s a lot more dangerous than she looks.”

The men took Mary out and returned for Moriarty, who kicked one of them in the shin and tried to bite one of them.

“I knew we should have put the rag back in his mouth,” Sherlock said.

With a man on each side of him, they took him out, leaving Sherlock to shut and bolt the door behind them.

As they listened to the roar the engines fade in the distance, Sherlock rubbed his chin.

“We do have a snowmobile,” Sherlock said. “At some point, we may want to return to civilization.”

John stepped directly in front of Sherlock, toes touching. He tipped his head up.

“Mmm. At some point,” John said, his lips almost touching Sherlock’s. “But not now.”

It was clumsy, it was awkward, but it was exactly what John needed. As their lips brushed together, John closed his eyes. This was a wonder. Blindly, he pushed Sherlock across the floor and over to the oh-so hideous cot. 

John shivered as Sherlock's arms reached around his waist. Those long fingers of his hand tracing the gun barrel stuffed down the back of his pants. John’s breath hitched as Sherlock palmed it. 

“John Watson, the gunslinger,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s neck.“Really?”

“You were extraordinarily hot.”

“No, you were. Hot. God, who am I kidding? You don’t need a gun to look hot. You even looked hot sliding into the room using Moran as a toboggan.”

He took John’s left hand in his. “I am finding a special place in my mind palace. I will never miss what these calluses mean. How they feel tracing across my neck, my back.”

“Enough,” John said, shutting Sherlock up with his lips. 

He should remember this method. It worked well. He felt Sherlock’s long fingers slide under his shirt and around, then down the back of his pants. 

“Sorry to remove this from your jeans, but I wouldn’t want an accident.”

John returned the touch, letting his fingers graze up Sherlock’s stomach, sending a shiver through him.

Sherlock set the Colt on the small table next to the cot, then playfully pushed John down onto it with Sherlock following on top of him.

“This cot is not the most comfortable. It has lumps. Or maybe that’s you,” John giggled. As he tenderly planted kisses along Sherlock’s long neck, he clawed at Sherlock’s shirt and fumbled with the buttons still fastened.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked. John could swear he could taste that voice, rich and creamy like melted chocolate. 

“You. Always you.”

“ _ And _ ?” 

“Inside you. I want to be inside you.”

John’s breath hitched as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut. He watched the corner of Sherlock’s lips twitch up. 

“Mmmm. That’s where I  _ want _ you to be.” His gorgeous baritone made John’s toes curl.

There was a time not long ago when John would have hated this feeling. Now he embraced it, craved it. Every touch was exquisite. He wanted to bury himself inside this man. Tremble with him. Sweat and cry with him. He wanted to connect in every intimate way he possibly could. 

He knows that Sherlock can’t read his mind. That was not how he read him. Still, it felt as if he could see into John’s head and know the most intimate secrets. John shivered. How did Sherlock always make him feel this way? Naked before he even removed his clothes? 

Sherlock’s eyes removed all the pretenses, and for the first time in John’s life, he not only didn’t care, he celebrated it. Stripped and truly bare, Sherlock gazed on who John was. Those unusual eyes turned soft and compassionate. As they climbed beneath the old quilt, lower bellies and hard cocks touched. On this narrow cot, elbows and knees banged and bumped as John rolled them over, all the while Sherlock’s voice vibrated like a giant oak being felled and his eyes never left John’s.

“John, John,” he called again and again.

He wanted Sherlock.  _ This. _ To think it all could have been taken away. It’s hard to remove that memory of the gun pressed to Sherlock’s head. To keep the visions away, John gently, sensually massaged the back of his head with the pads of his fingers. 

John threw back the quilt. It was far too binding and limiting. He needed to see Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s hips rutted up and John met his movements with firm deliberation. His cock stood out proud. He savored Sherlock’s hisses and moans. He grabbed the lubricant from under the pillow, squirted some into his palm, and slipped his hand down his belly. 

He wanted to do this some much--explore Sherlock, make fireworks explode behind those fluttering eyelids, and make those eyes see all the kaleidoscopes that Sherlock made him see.

John slipped his finger inside. He found his prostate with ease. He stroked and massaged it. Sherlock gasped and begged. For a man who always had so many words, he suddenly could only rumble out “good!” and “John!” and “more!”

Sherlock’s cock twitched all the while, becoming wild and desperate. John removed his fingers and climbed between Sherlock’s thighs, hoisting one leg over his shoulder.

“Good!” Sherlock repeated.

John nodded and inched himself inside.The wind howled and the blizzard continued outside while the fire crackled behind them. 

“Perfection,” Sherlock moaned.

They had all night. John rolled his hips, hitting Sherlock’s prostate once again and sending Sherlock back into one syllable words. 

John shifted his weight and subtly increased his trusting. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He wasn’t sure what emotions would escape him. With the glow of the fire on Sherlock’s face, he looked unearthly. 

His own moaning became as desperate as Sherlock’s. He ached to come inside him. He slowed to keep from coming. Not yet. Sherlock threw his head back, baring his long slender neck. The one leg which John had pulled to his shoulder had slipped, but Sherlock still held it in the air in place, making the muscles in his stomach quiver and ripple. John helplessly let his own hips begin to snap, and Sherlock clenched around his cock in return. John reached down and grasped Sherlock’s leaking prick, rolling the beads of precum down the slit and over the head.

John’s motions became erratic. John couldn't stop now, and he knew that Sherlock couldn’t either. John curled his fingers around the base of Sherlock’s long cock and pumped in time with his increasing thrusts. The wet slapping of their flesh was an obscene symphony to John. As his hips jerked and shook, he watched the radiance of Sherlock’s face in the throes of his coming orgasm.

They’d fucked before. He’d fucked Sherlock before. Sherlock had fucked him. And, yes, they’d made love. But not like this, not like this. It felt so wondrous, it scared him.

He felt that rush inside himself spreading. His testicles tightened, and his stomach clenched. He heard himself speaking nonsense. John was no longer gentle. He thrashed and pummeled Sherlock’s ass with the same intensity Sherlock thrust and jerked into his fist. With one final snap of John’s hips, he came. He gripped Sherlock’s cock tighter and gave three long, firm strokes up and down its length. Sherlock’s cock spilled and spurted over his hand, painting John’s belly.

And just like that, John spent and collapsed down onto Sherlock.

As they gasped, one of Sherlock’s hands caressed John’s heaving back while the other found John’s hair and began to twirl it in his fingers. John, however, found he couldn’t move. It was a romantic gesture. Something that John treasured and at one time would have been terrified of. He never knew he wanted this so much. Now he realized that he doesn’t think he could ever live without it.

“I feel like Harry’s Raggedy Andy doll,” he finally said between breaths.

Sherlock pursed his lips and gave John an odd look.

“It’s a rag doll,” John explained.

“I thought as much. One of those American popular culture references you throw out to confuse me.”

“I don’t say them to confuse you. I am an American.”

“True. And to be fair, I have difficulty with British popular culture references as well.”

They both stared at the timbers above them. Slowly, heart-rates returned to normal. 

He liked this calm acceptance that was between them. These quiet moments were theirs alone. Sherlock swung his legs over John’s, hooking them together. He grinned up at him, his lips pressing and pulling to keep from laughing. It was delightful to see him all wrecked and lovely beneath him. Yes, this was romantic and sappy, and John wouldn’t trade any of this. Not for anything in this world.

He rolled off of him, and curled their bodies together, legs still hooked, arms twined. 

He kissed Sherlock. It was slow and languid. Comfortable. Their tongues touched and rolled. John felt that flip inside him that said, “this is what love is.”

John wished that the world would accept them like this. He knew Harry would, and his mom, but his friends, Pete, Mike, and Vic? Were they really his friends if they didn’t accept him? No. So, what now? Would Sherlock return to London?

A scratching in the wall shook John from his thoughts along with Sherlock.

“You were thinking really loud,” he said. “Hopefully you’re not having another sexual identity crisis.”

“No, just about how I wish the world was different.”

Sherlock laughed. The scratching moved along the wall toward the kitchen.

“About those raccoons ...” John said. “Was that planned? I mean, you did move that rocking chair to that spot on the floor.”

“John, that is why I love you. Of course you’d realize that I knew rocking in the chair in that spot would disturb them.”

Really he didn’t. It was a lucky guess. But no need to let Sherlock know that.

“Of course I did,” John jibed. He closed his eyes, but the same thoughts returned.  _ So, what now? _

————————————

Summer came and John didn’t ask  _ what now _ , but Sherlock did stay. 

Sherlock knew John’s question. It clung to them like the thick humid air of summer. But John didn’t ask.

Sherlock waited. He knew John wanted him to stay. He wanted to be the one. But most of all, he wanted John to be happy.

It was over 100 degrees in the shade and the tar bubbled on the parking lot. Sherlock was sticky with sweat that trickled down the middle of his back. It was a perfect day for a dip in the water of Lime Lake. It was one of the interesting small lakes in the area that John shared with Sherlock. Limestone walls on the side, white sandy bottom and an uncanny aqua blue water. The beach towels were stacked on the back seat of his car along with a knapsack filled with cold drinks and sandwiches for the afternoon. A day at the lake. That’s where they  _ were _ headed. 

They’d driven past the rest stop so many times. But today it was as if his car had a mind of its own: the turn indicator blinked to life and the car veered to the right and followed the arrow pointing to Rest Area 818. As they rolled to a stop, he could almost smell the heat off I-94 as semis blasted down the interstate. 

Sherlock stared over John’s bronzed shoulder at the old oak and maples trees. The branches on the oak trees swayed in the breeze, and the same unkempt mulberry bushes lined the worn path behind the trees. The heat and roar of semis still hung in the air but the time of day was different. 

He turned off the engine, but they both still sat in the bucket seats. John’s red swim trunks hugged his thighs, and his white tank top contrasted with his golden tan. Sherlock noticed how the silver on his grandfather’s dog tags sparkled like John’s eyes. 

“I don’t know why I turned in here.” 

“It’s called nostalgia, Sherlock.”

“It’s the middle of the day. If I really wanted it authentic, I would have driven in with you in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, and our swim trunks should be around our ankles.”

Sherlock chuckled at him. “We c _ ould  _ walk around to the back of the building.”

“Yes, and we  _ could  _ get arrested. We should head to the Lime Lake. Our friends are waiting for us.”

“Just a quick walk around the building,” Sherlock suggested.

He wanted to meet them at the lake. He knew how much it meant to John that his friends turned out to be true friends. For John, Sherlock tried his best not to be his usual self. For the first time, it mattered to Sherlock. He wanted John’s friends to like him. He put another’s happiness above his own. Sherlock was surprised to find that he honestly liked them. Mike even patted him on the back, and said Sherlock was fun at keggers. Of course, it didn’t hurt to wow Mike with his card tricks when playing poker. And he had all of John’s friends captivated when drinking Budweiser from red Solo cups around the campfire. Sherlock made sure to spin yarns that weren’t really yarns about the other people drinking. It seemed revealing intimate secrets about all the party goers made Mike’s day along with John’s other friends. Who knew that his random deductions would become a highly requested party favor?

“Just a quick walk around the building,” Sherlock repeated. “For a kiss?” 

“I would want more than that,” John smirked and opened the door. “Come on.”

He knew John would come. 

And he came out too. The hard part wasn’t telling his mom and Harry. Sherlock reassured John they’d be fine with it. He didn’t understand why John was surprised when they laughed and said they already knew. What did surprise Sherlock was that they both genuinely liked him. John’s mom made Sherlock double chocolate cake that could tempt the devil, and Harry made him her “special” brownies. But it was Martha Hudson’s unconditional love that surprised Sherlock most. She opened her arms to them for the summer. Not a rented apartment, but she opened her own home, her upstairs to her “two boys.” She even let them eat for free on Sunday mornings at her truck stop.

Now they were miles away and at the place they first met.

John swung his car door shut and followed. Sherlock knew he would just as he knew John would welcome a quick kiss. Sherlock wasn’t one for sentiment, but he needed this. He grabbed John’s tank top and pulled him toward the back of the rest area building. 

John’s lips were wet and warm. Although he pulled away, it was not because he was afraid of being seen. 

“Let’s not get anything started we can’t finish,” John said. Despite the heat of the afternoon sun that warmed them both, they shivered. 

Not sentiment, but this was important. The time, the place. 

This place was so different than what Sherlock had always known.

He did miss London.  _ He did. _ He missed the hums and throes of the great city. He wanted to take John with him and show him the backstreets and rooftops—all that he loved. But he could wait. Michigan wasn’t that bad. He detested the mosquitoes and deer flies, but the U of M did have an excellent chemistry department, and the variety of lakes was extraordinary. 

Most important, John was here.

Sherlock blinked. The kiss was brief. But he got a second.

“A few quick snogs. I can wait for later,” Sherlock said. He loved the way John’s hair turned blonder in the sun. 

“I’m just thankful no one is in a tree taking snapshots. Thank god they’re far away somewhere. Hopefully with bars.”

“Yes, about that …”

“No!”

“I wouldn’t worry. He has a new interest. And moniker. My brother told me that he’s taken to Mr. M.”

“New interest? No!  _ Not ... _ ”

“Um … yes, and it couldn’t have happened to a better person.”

They began to walk back to the car. 

“It began with Mycroft’s moniker for him. Mr. Miserable,” Sherlock explained. “It’s become Mycroft’s mission to make Mr. M suffer. But now it seems, James has turned it around. He believes Mr. M was a compliment or some sort of endearment from Mycroft.”

Sherlock laughed along with John.

“I almost feel sorry for him,” John said, catching his breath.

“Who? Mycroft or James? Mycroft does not return the sentiment. I think Moriarty’s infatuation with my brother has more to do with power than actual physical attraction. At least I hope it does. And you have to agree that having James fixate on him, does take the focus off me.”

John stopped at the car, his hand on the door handle. “Wait. There’s something I need to say.”

Sherlock held his breath. He was going to do it. He was going to ask.

He knew why John hadn’t asked him to stay. He didn’t want Sherlock to have to choose. That was who John was. He would never stand in the way of Sherlock’s happiness even at the expense of his own. Didn’t he understand that Sherlock’s own happiness was John’s?

“I know I haven’t been fair with you at times, or truthful with myself, but I know what I am and where I want to be. I’ve been thinking, I want to go to London with you if you’ll have me.”

This wasn’t at all what Sherlock had expected. Leave to John to do the unexpected. Sherlock shook his head, and John’s face fell. 

“I want you to come with me, some day, but not now. Not today or tomorrow or weeks from now. You need to finish college, become a doctor.” Sherlock wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I need you more.”

“You have me,” Sherlock said. He reached into the back seat and took the bright colored beach towel off the top. “I’m here until you finish school. If you’re okay with me playing my violin at all hours and body parts in the freezer. Maybe help solving a few crimes?”

“Help? Like I’m your sidekick?”

“No, like you’re my  _ partner _ .” He wiped the sweat from his face. It was too hot in this parking lot. John was sweating just as much. He couldn’t wait to get to the lake.

“You are a genius.”

Sherlock threw John the towel. “ Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius.” 

“Thank you. I think.” He toweled the sweat from the back of his neck, ruffling his hair. As Sherlock watched, he knew in his heart that there would never be anyone else for him. This was it.

“I love you, John Watson.” He started the car. It was time for a cool dip in the lake. 

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Want a sandwich? I think Martha packed ham and cheese.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have no real notes of insights for this chapter. I could explain a bit about [ Lime Lake’s history ](https://www.co.jackson.mi.us/Facilities/Facility/Details/Lime-Lake-County-Park-16) as part lake, part quarry, but I think John does that enough in the story. What I do want to do is write a bit about how I wrote this story--a bit of meta processing. This story began long ago as another work that sat in my old desktop computer and never came to fruition. I had part of the first chapter written and that was all. I liked the premise, yet had a hard time where to go with the young protagonists. Although it's a story about John coming out, I wanted a secondary plot. I didn't have it. 
> 
> Another challenge was that it has been a long time since I’d written a story by the seat of my pants. Writing and posting as I go was once my usual method, but over the last five years, I’ve been plotting out most of my stories. I haven’t written piece by piece where I let the story take me for a ride since I’d written in the _Brokeback Mountain_ fandom. As a writer, it's much different to have a story plotted out, than to just write and let the characters drive you. While I rarely have an entire story written, I know where I'm going, and for the most part each story has been plotted and over half written before I begin posting. Sure, sometimes a story will take a new turn, but I still go in a plan and plot.
> 
> That's the secondary plot here. All by the seat of my polka dot pants. This story pushed me in fits and starts. I’m rather proud of the final chapters, mixing love humor and action together. I have a special place in my heart for juxtaposed emotional moments. I threw Moriarty, Moran, and Mary into the pot along with our boys. Rocky Raccoon's family kind of showed up to help stir the pot. The wall banging is another real-life experience on my part. My parents first home (and mine) was a cottage on a lake where raccoons had made their home before we came. They were noisy rascals. And this story is no exaggeration as to how disruptive they can become.
> 
> **Sex Rant (please skip if you're offended by writer angry over past sex comments)**
> 
> Final difficulty was the sex. Sex is always the hardest for me to write. It’s funny because in the classroom I have no problem talking about phallic imagery. But that’s a whole lot different than writing a sex scene. Part of it stems from comments and second guessing myself as I write. I am fine with criticism of my work except when it comes to choices I’d written about regarding sex. This is where comments are problematic for me. Someone can comment about plot or characterization, and I'm not bothered at all. But comment about how I wrote a sex scene, and it stifles me. It's not unusual that someone will comment how the sex scene I wrote was too short. Personally, when I read fanfiction, it’s the last thing I’m interested in (sometimes I even skip it to get to the plot). Instead, I love reading about what leads up to the sex act—I love mental foreplay the most. I can ignore comments about abbreviated sex scenes for the most part, but not comments about who’s top vs. who’s bottom. I like equal opportunity when it comes to top and bottom. Fandoms like _Brokeback Mountain_ were torn apart over Ennis being the top and Jack the bottom argument. In this fandom, most writers may have a preference, but we don't get nasty over it. I am so, so thankful for that. I love this fandom of writers because they are so supportive. Still, a few people will comment about how they "wish" you would write John or Sherlock as a top or bottom. Sorry. I'm not changing it. 
> 
> But the comments I cringe at most are those about penis size. I intentionally never state in a story that one character has a larger penis than another. I don’t care who is bigger. Sherlock is a big man with big hands and feet. John can carry a tire iron in his pants and forget it's there. Not a contest. They are most likely both well endowed. Please, no more penis size comments. One comment ditched my writing process for days. How do other writers feel about this, I wonder?
> 
> **Rant Complete**
> 
> So with a tear in my eye, I end this story. I have two Fandom Trumps Hate stories to write and another longer work that I started. I don’t think I’ll write another “by the seat of my pants” story again for a while. My next long work is plotted out completely, but only the first chapter is written. I hope to begin publishing it by the end of the summer.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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